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littlcdarlin · 2 days ago

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Event Horizon

summary: When you start university to do your master’s in physics, you are more than surprised to meet your professor: Joel Miller, an old friend of your parents' who moved away years ago. word–count: 15k warnings: professor kink, power imbalance due to Joel being reader's professor, illegal relationship (overage & consenting), dbf!Joel, big fat age gap (unspecified but written with early 20s & mid 50s in mind), unprotected piv, just overall daddy issues (no use of the word daddy)

note: Okay, time to tell you I am a big nerd and studied physics in uni. Truth is, I quit to pursue a career in the arts, so my knowledge of masters level physics is...a little rusty. Please be lenient with me if I messed anything up. Also, I know most people hate physics, but I promise Joel makes it hot. Warning: explanation of the Dirac equation as foreplay. Also, I'm European and have no fucking clue how the American education system works but I don't care enough to do research. Enjoy <3333

event horizon noun ASTRONOMY a notional boundary around a black hole beyond which no light or other radiation can escape. a point of no return.

Uni felt different at eighteen, when everything was about moving out, drinking beer at frat parties, and kissing boys who didn’t grow up in the same town you did. It was an exciting time, the degree itself fading into the background of all sorts of new experiences, but now that you’re doing your masters, you plan on focusing on your your grades more than on partying.

You enrolled in a new university, farther away from home, with a better physics program, and although you’ve grown up considerably, you still feel that tingle of anxiety you did when you first walked to your dorm, fresh out of high school. This time you won’t have to share with another student, spending your saved money on a bit of privacy that is a single dorm room, but still, you wonder if you’ll make friends here, or if you’ll spend your night hauled up alone, watching trash TV and crying because you’re lonely.

The room is small, blank, but functional with a bathroom you share with another student and a small kitchenette, and immediately you dream of all the ways you could decorate it. You didn’t bring much, just a big suitcase and a few boxes your Dad dropped off earlier. You feel slightly guilty for leaving your parents behind, but the relief outweighs the guilt – you won’t have to come home every Sunday for dinner, visits will be scarce. You love you parents, but the distance is much needed.

You get to unpacking your clothes, reveling in the fact that you can listen to music without headphones in your very own space. You could do it in your underwear, or naked, you could sing and dance along, and nobody would be bothered by it. It’s going to be a tough two years, the program you chose more than challenging, but a childish sort of giddiness fills you – no roommate to be considerate of, no parents to visit and take care of every week. This time in your life is about you, and only you – your career, but also your well-being. You promise yourself to do what makes you happy, instead of looking out for everyone else all of the time, and you’ll start by ordering Thai food and watching the trashiest movie with the hottest actors you can find on the little flatscreen you brought with you.

***

Your first lecture is Computational Physics – the one you’re looking forward to the least. The reason you decided to study physics at all was the predictable logic behind each problem, but the more you studied, the more complex the problems got, until they were impossible to solve analytically. Now you get to solve fluid dynamic equations and simulate quantum systems on a Monday morning instead of having a peaceful cup of coffee and taking a walk around campus.

The lecture hall is big, and you pick a seat that is neither too far away to be able to read the professor’s notes, nor close enough to immediately be pinned as an over-eager teacher’s pet. In the end, you plop down next to a girl who’s sitting alone, something about her shaved head and countless earrings making you think she wouldn’t make fun of you even if you didn’t understand a single thing all lecture.

"Okay if I sit here?", you ask somewhat timidly, trying hard not to sound too much like an eleven year old Ron Weasley boarding the train to Hogwarts.

"Please," the girl answers, "I don’t know anybody here."

"Did you move here, too?"

"Yeah, I’m from New York."

"You look it," you say with a smile, eyes drifting over her clothes and jewelry.

"Thanks…I guess?", she answers, her grin revealing a charming gap between her front teeth. "I’m Alva."

You introduce yourself, thankful to have found someone you can stick to already. Throughout the lecture you find out that apart from being much cooler than everyone else in the room, Alva has a biting sense of humor, and a near endless knowledge of computational physics. You make a mental note to ask her to study together, her explanations much easier to understand than the professor’s.

The two of you spend your lunch break together, and you tell her a little bit about yourself, but way too soon it’s time to go already – you have Advanced Quantum Mechanics in a different lecture hall. This you find way more interesting, basic quantum mechanics was one of your favorite lectures during your bachelor’s degree. As Alva and you sit down, you find yourself hoping you’ll be able to help her out this time, or you’d feel like a leech for making her help you with Computational. She doesn’t seem bothered, though, and keeps babbling happily about a band she recently discovered.

"– Britpop, but they only put out two albums. I think they were like a student band or something? They’re wildly underrated, I’ll send you a song, their debut is called The Sun Is Often Out."

Your thoughts start to wander off a little, eyes drifting over the old-fashioned chalkboards, when the door at the front of the lecture hall opens, and a tall man walks in – a man you recognize.

"Holy shit," you whisper, interrupting Alva’s rant about the Longpigs, and she turns her head to look at what you’re staring at.

"Damn," she says with a grin, "if I wasn’t gay, I’d want a piece of that."

"No," you snort, "I know him. He’s my Dad’s friend."

Alva opens her mouth to say something, but at that moment, Joel Miller steps forward, checking to see if the microphone is working, and introduces himself to the hundreds of students in front of him. His voice is deep, and as warm as you remember it, but that’s where the accuracy of your memories ends – your childish brain failed to register the tanned forearms and rolled up sleeves, the carelessly styled curls, the perfect side-profile. He’s got grey streaks in his hair now, which should send you into a crisis about time passing and your own little life being finite, but instead it makes your stomach swirl with something dangerous. Joel Miller, the Joel Miller, who organized backyard barbecues with your father and bought your favorite vegan sausages when your Dad rolled his eyes at you, who made strawberry lemonade instead of lemon, because he knew you preferred it, who helped you with your physics homework when you were graduating high school and didn’t rat you out when he caught you smoking at seventeen – he’s handsome.

There’s still a familiarity about him, the way he moves and talks, although it’s unsettling to see him in such a different environment. You’re used to band-tee-Joel, beer bottle and tongs in his hands, a breezy smile on his face. He looks different here, in a white button-down, with a stern expression on his face, as he’s reading the names on his list to check attendance. When he calls Alva’s name and she raises her hand, his eyes flicker upwards, but he doesn’t look at you. Still, your stomach lurches. If you listen carefully, you can detect that southern twang in his voice you’re sure most people would miss, and it fills you with satisfaction to know you’re the one who knows him best in this room – you’re sure half the lecture hall must see how attractive he is.

When he reads out your name, there’s a surprised lilt to his tone, and your heart threatens to skip a beat.

"Here."

Your eyes meet, and although his expression doesn’t change, he holds your eyecontact for a second too long. Alva nudges your side and grins.

Your plans about outshining Alva and returning the favor of helping with a lecture are quickly buried by Joel Miller’s beautiful hands – thick fingers holding a piece of chalk almost tenderly, twirling it around when he isn’t writing on the chalkboard. You vaguely register him introducing the Dirac equation, but as interesting as you would normally find it, your thoughts are stuck between memories of barbecues and the realization that you will have to call the man who taught you to drive Professor Miller.

If Alva notices your wandering mind, she doesn’t comment on it, which you’re thankful for. You do notice her throwing you a couple of knowing glances, as you copy down what Joel is writing down, mixing up gamma, delta, and the Dirac spinor.

"Alright, so you all know how Schrödinger’s equation works great for quantum mechanics, but it doesn’t play nicely with Einstein’s relativity, right? That’s a problem because electrons move fast, sometimes close to the speed of light, so we need an equation that respects both quantum mechanics and special relativity. That’s where Dirac steps in."

He’s still got that warm way of explaining things your Dad never managed when you needed help in high school, like he enjoys clearing things up for people. He’s a born teacher, patient when you panicked in the car because you confused the clutch and the break, persistent when you wanted to throw your physics book against a wall. Look, kid, think of it this way: Push harder, it moves faster. Make it heavier, it’s harder to move. If you apply a force F to an object with mass m, it will accelerate a. That’s why your Dad’s car takes longer to stop than your bike. Even now, he manages to make a far more complex equation than Newton’s second law tangible.

"Dirac's equation is like the grown-up version of Schrödinger’s equation. It explains how particles with spin-half, like electrons, behave when they move at relativistic speeds. The gamma mu matrices make sure the equation works in four-dimensional spacetime, meaning three space dimensions plus time. The psi is a spinor, which is just a fancy way of saying that an electron isn’t just a simple wave function, it actually has spin built into its nature. Now, can anyone think of a situation where we would need to use this equation instead of the regular Schrödinger equation?"

Nobody raises their hand, most people still busy with writing down Joel’s complicated notes, and as if on cue, his eyes are on yours when you look up from your notebook. He raises an eyebrow, and you see the corner of his mouth twitch almost imperceptibly. Then, he calls your last name, a formal Miss dripping off his tongue as if he hasn’t called you kiddo for most of your life. It’s almost like he’s making a joke only the two of you are able to understand, and the thought thrills you to your bone. Two can play this game – you smile back.

"Sure, Professor Miller. You’d use it for studying high-energy particles, like electrons in particle accelerators, because it accounts for relativistic speeds. It’s also needed for situations where particles are created or destroyed, which Schrödinger’s equation doesn’t cover."

Again, his eyes linger on yours, and his slightly amused smile turns into a more genuine one at your answer. You let out a relieved sigh.

"Exactly," Joel answers, his attention on the rest of the class again, "Someone payed attention during Basic Quantum Mechanics. Now, here’s where it gets wild. When Dirac wrote this down, he realized it naturally predicts antiparticles, meaning for every electron, there should be a mirror-image particle with opposite charge, which we now call the positron. That was a huge deal because it wasn’t something people were expecting, it just fell out of the math."

For the rest of the class, Joel doesn’t continue that little game between the two of you, but whenever he asks a question, his gaze flickers over you, and your stomach gives an embarrassing little jump. Alva grins whenever this happens, but for most of the class she’s busy following Joel’s explanations.

"I want you to read up on today’s lecture," Joel says at the end of the lecture, and writes down a few page numbers on the chalkboard, "and solve the problems I mentioned earlier. Attendance isn’t mandatory, we’re all adults here, but I urge you to come if you’re interested in graduating in the next three years. Trust me, it’s easier to just do the work here than in your dorms. Now, enjoy the weather, see you Monday."

You and Alva pack up your things, and before she can ask you which class you have next, you pick up your backpack.

"I’m gonna say hi to him," you tell her, nodding in Joel’s direction, "my Dad and him go way back."

"Sure," Alva says, a cheeky smile on her face, "it’d be rude not to."

"Meet you outside?"

"I’ll be at the vending machine. Go get him," she jokes, and you snort.

Joel is packing up his course materials when you make your way down the steps and to his desk, but he looks up when he hears you coming towards him, and immediately his face splits into a smile. If you were anywhere else and ten years younger, he’d probably ruffle your hair.

"Good lecture," you say, "Dad didn’t tell me you’re teaching again."

Joel puts his piece of chalk into a tin box and nods.

"I don’t think he knows. You know how it is, we never get around to callin’ and I haven’t been home in a while."

So this is a new development, perhaps even Joel’s first semester back at university, too.

"What about the contracting? Don’t you miss the…pipes?"

He chuckles at your lack in basic contracting knowledge, his eyes not moving from yours.

"Ah, that was always Tommy, he just needed a little help. Company’s doin’ well now, though, so he’ll manage without me."

You think you remember Tommy – a man good-naturedly chasing you and the rest of the giggling neighborhood kids with a harden hose – but the memory is too vague to be sure it’s really him.

"You’ve grown up," Joel says, almost accusingly, and you shrug and smile. "Doin’ your master’s already. How come you’re familiar with Dirac?"

His accent is much thicker now that it’s only the two of you, and you notice a hint of pride when he asks about your correct answer to his question during the lecture. The satisfied feeling it gives you is still the same as when he high-fived you after your drivers test, or when he patted your back after you solved a problem for school without his help.

"Summer reading," you admit, trying hard not to sound like a nerd, "Basic Quantum Mechanics was my favorite lecture as an undergrad."

Joel smiles at you, and puts his notes into his leather bag. He slings it across his shoulder, and nods towards the door.

"How would you like to grab a coffee and tell me all about what’s been goin’ on with you and your old man?"

Your eyes flicker briefly over his hand, gripping the strap of his bag, and you raise an eyebrow.

"What’s the policy for staff having coffee with their students, Professor?"

Joel holds your gaze, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"I’m actually not sure, Miss, I’ve never had to check before."

He’s playing along, and it feels dangerously blurry – yes, he’s your Dad’s old friend, your childhood neighbor, but it feels like more than just joking around.

"Does that mean I’m your first, then?", you ask, voice sweet and close to flirting now. The smile freezes on Joel’s face, and his gaze becomes almost calculating.

"Am I yours?" he asks you softly, and the double-meaning behind his question isn’t lost on you. You feel a thrilling pang in your stomach – Joel Miller is flirting with you.

***

You do end up getting coffee after you tell Alva you’ll meet her later, Joel reassuring you it won’t get him into trouble, and you’re fascinated to see he still drinks it black. What fascinates you even more is that you remember how he takes his coffee, and you wonder why your brain filed this fact away as important, not to be forgotten.

"So, when did you graduate? Sorry I missed it."

There’s honest regret in his voice, which surprises you. Joel was always a warm person, but you figured he cared for you as much as he would have for any kid living across the street.

"Last June," you tell him, dropping a sugar cube into your cappuccino. "I spent the summer working, and now I’m here."

"How d’you like it so far?"

You give a nervous chuckle, torn between the honest truth and pleasant small talk. You opt for the former – this is Joel, after all, not some stranger.

"To be honest with you, I oscillate between enjoying my freedom away from Mom and Dad, and being scared shitless by starting over somewhere new," you admit, looking at your coffee. You haven’t told people about your fear, and it feels good to finally admit it – the grip your parents have had on you makes your newfound freedom almost uncomfortable.

"What d’you mean, startin’ over?", Joel asks, his voice strikingly gentle. You sigh, and shrug.

"I know the distance is good for me, but it was comfortable, just doing what my parents expected of me. I had good grades, nice friends, and just the right amount of drunken nights for them not to worry about my social life too much," you explain, "and now it’s like…there’s so much room to be someone else, cause they won’t see it anyway."

You look up, embarrassed to have spilt your guts like this, but Joel looks thoughtful, his thumb moving along the handle of his coffee cup.

"Sorry," you mutter, "I know they’re your friends, but they can be…"

"Overbearing?"

You smile at him gratefully and he smiles back.

"Look, I know your parents pretty well. They love you to bits, but as an adult I imagine it must be stiflin’.“

"Yeah," you sigh, grateful for his understanding, "I feel like I don’t know who I am when I’m not…their kid."

Joel nods, and sips his coffee, apparently pondering what you said.

"I promised myself I would only do what makes me happy while I’m here," you tell him sheepishly, as if it’s a secret, and Joel laughs.

"Well, I’m not expectin’ you to hand in any homework, then."

You grin, too, and shake your head. It’s surreal, Joel being your professor, and you wearing your heart on your sleeve for him.

"Don’t worry, Professor Miller, I’m not dropping your class."

"You’d better not, it’d really hurt my feelings," Joel says, eyes trained on yours. Again, that blurriness set in motion by the change of his role in your life: neighbor to professor to – what?

"What about you, though? This your first semester here?"

"Second," he tells you, "but I still don’t feel at home. Once a Texan, always a Texan, I guess."

You cock your head and watch him drain the last of his coffee, the cup tiny in his hands.

"What?" he asks you, curiosity evident in his voice.

"You look so different," you say, and Joel scoffs.

"Well, that’s real nice. Know I’m not thirty anymore, but geez–"

"No," you say with a grin, "it’s not that. I don’t know, I’ve just never seen you teach before. Or dressed this nice – I remember you mowing the lawn in a Fleetwood Mac shirt, not checking attendance in a button down."

Joel’s cheeks go slightly pink, and he scoffs again.

"Well, I can’t show up here in a band tee, can I? Gotta dress the part," he mutters.

"I get it. You suit it," you tell him, if only to see that blush appear on his face again. He looks up at you, holding your gaze for a couple of seconds, then he shakes his head.

"What were the odds of us meetin’ like this, huh? I gotta call your father and tell him."

Something about that bothers you, you’d prefer for your parents not to know. You like sitting here with Joel, reminiscing the old times, without anybody getting a peek in.

"Or not," he says gently, seeing the expression on your face.

"Sorry," you say, "course you can tell him."

"You apologize a lot," he tells you, and you fight the urge to say sorry once again. "It’s okay, I’m not tellin’ anyone, kid. ’S just you n me."

That pang in your stomach again, and you nod.

"Alright," you answer, "just us."

You get a refill for the two of you, and a blueberry muffin to split, which feels strangely intimate, but Joel pats his stomach and jokes about keeping an eye on his figure, so you grin, and ask the barista to cut it in half. Joel asks you about your friends, and you tell him about Alva.

"Oh yes," he says and swallows a bite of the muffin, "that punky lookin’ kid who sits next to you?"

"Yeah, she’s nice. Haven’t really met anyone else."

"Geez, I’m not keepin’ you from findin’ frat boys to hook up with, am I?"

You laugh, the idea of sitting here with a twenty-something year old kid named Cole or Josh instead of him so absurd, you can’t help it.

"No," you tell him, "I’m honestly enjoying the fact that I don’t have to have someone else in my dorm anymore."

"Well, that’s a relief to hear," Joel says, "they’re all dipshits."

You remember him telling you something similar about the boys in high school, and it makes you smile. He’s still got that protective streak, then.

"To tell you the truth, I’m glad you’re here," you say quietly, "if I’m not making any friends, I can come crying to you."

Joel watches you for a couple of seconds, not laughing as you intended, but taking your words seriously.

"Course you’ll make friends. Give it a couple of weeks, and you’ll have forgotten all about physics cause you’ll be skippin’ classes left and right to hang out with people."

You don’t tell him, but you think it’s very unlikely you’ll skip any of his classes. Still, you appreciate his words and how confident he seems to be in your ability to open up to people.

"Well, will you give me the answers to your exams if I skip your class?"

"No way," he says with a cheeky smile, the crinkles around his eyes prominent. "I don’t do preferential treatment. You wanna split another blueberry muffin?"

You grin.

"Thought you were watching your waistline."

"I am, that’s why I’m only eating halves."

***

Your afternoon with Joel leaves you on a high for the rest of the day, feeling much less lonely now that you’ve had a conversation beyond the usual so how many siblings do you have? and where did you do your undergrad?

You start spending your lunch breaks with Alva and some friends she made in another lecture, all of whom are very nice. In the evenings you all go to see a movie or have dinner together in any of your dorm rooms, and although you walk around campus holding out one eye for Joel, you don’t see him for the rest of the week. There is always a nudge of disappointment in your stomach, when you glance in the direction of his office, and the door is closed, but you’re so busy, you don’t dwell on it too much. The days pass in a blur of new lectures, swapping music with Alva, and evenings spent as a group of six, and suddenly it’s Sunday again. You aren’t too sad the weekend is already over, and you know exactly why you’re looking forward to Monday, but you don’t allow yourself to think about Joel any more than you can help.

In the afternoon, while you’re doing Joel’s assignment for the next class, your mother calls, and you answer the phone with a mixture of feelings.

Hi, my darling, how are you doing?

"Hi, Mom. I’m good, just doing my work for tomorrow. How are you?"

Good, good. How was your first week? Did you meet anyone nice?

Hah, if she only knew. It feels deceptive, not telling her about Joel, but you like that for now, he’s just yours.

"Yes, this girl called Alva. We and some guys hang out a lot, there’s a cinema near by, but the lectures are pretty hard, so we only have the evenings off."

Well, I’m glad you found some nice people! Dad says hi, he’s making dinner. Anyway, baby, we miss you terribly. Do you know when you’ll be coming home?

"I just got here, Mom."

You sigh so quietly your mother can’t hear it, guilt already nagging at your heart. Sunday is the day you would usually be coming home for dinner, and you know it’s no coincidence your parents called you now.

Of course, you’re right. It’s just not easy for your Dad and me, you know? You’ve never been this far from home, and you’re our baby.

Yeah, you think, your adult baby. You sigh again.

"I don’t know if I’ll come this month, I’m still sort of settling in. But I’ll let you know if there’s a free weekend next month, alright?"

Sure, that sounds great. Will you send us some pictures of your friends, and your room?

"Sure," you say, but it bugs you that you’re giving in. Already, you’re breaking the promise you made yourself, and letting your parents further into your life here than you’re comfortable with.

"Mom, I gotta go, I’ve still got some problems to solve and I’m meeting Alva for dinner soon."

Okay, darling, enjoy your night! And make yourself heard. I love you!

"Love you, too! Talk soon."

Your kind, clingy mother, whose greatest pain is not knowing if you’re safe. In a way you miss her, and you feel guilty for being annoyed. Still, you know you have to gently nudge her away from you, or she’ll suffocate you one day. It makes you angry with yourself, because you know your Mom would have liked nothing more than to hear all about your week, but as soon as she asked you a question, you felt like your seventeen year old self again, getting yelled at because you stayed up past your curfew, and your parents didn’t know where you were.

Tears of frustration spring to your eyes – the mix of feelings too much for you to handle. You wipe them away with the back of your hand, breathe in shakily, and try to focus on your assignment again, but now you’re riled up, and the tears won’t stop.

It’s hard for you to deal with disappointing your parents, forcing them away when they would like nothing more than to know everything that’s going on in your life. So, instead of preparing for Joel’s lecture, you cry on your bed, feeling lonely and angry with yourself for hurting them. You know your reaction is disproportionate, but everything you kept buried while you lived close to your parents comes bubbling out of you.

You call Alva, tell her you have cramps because of your period and just want to stay in bed. She’s understanding, asks you if there’s anything she can do, even offers to bring you takeout or a hot water bottle, which makes you feel all the worse for lying to her. You decline her offer, tell her you’ll meet her Monday morning. In the evening, you regret not letting her bring over a real meal, eating cold pasta in your underwear, tears still running down your face and making your head pound.

***

On Monday, you feel slightly better, your headache is gone and your face isn’t as puffy as you expected it to be. Still, you’re in a solitary mood, and are glad to find Alva is able to keep up an entire conversation virtually by herself – you just grunt from time to time, or give noncommittal movements of your head in vague agreement. You hope if she notices your bad mood, she just thinks it has to do with your period.

Computational Physics is hell – you dislike it on the best of days, but guilt ridden and tired, you’re barely able to pay attention at all, and the professor’s handwriting is so bad, you end up copying down Alva’s notes instead. She’s kind about it, slides over her notebook at an angle that makes it easy to read, and you make a mental note to thank her for being so kind to you while you’re offering nothing but a scowling expression all day. Maybe you’ll cook for her, or make a mixtape of your favorite songs, just to show her you’re interested in being actual good friends.

Lunch passes easily, as always you sit with Alva and the guys, and there’s enough people for you to stare at your mashed potatoes and repeatedly stab them with your fork instead of eating them. They taste like flour mixed up with water, and you dream up your father’s Sunday dinner instead, but it does little to help with the taste.

"So, you lookin’ forward to flirting with Miller in front of the whole lecture hall again?" Alva asks you, as you’re making your way to said room. You glare at her, but can’t help the corners of your mouth twitching.

"Wasn’t flirting with him," you answer, kicking a pebble, "I grew up across the street from him, I’ve known him practically my whole life."

"Whatever you say, grumpy," Alva teases, nudging your shoulder with hers. You’re overcome with a rush of gratitude for the way she treats you, persistently kind and humorous. You chuckle, your mood lifting slightly.

"He’s probably been waiting for you to turn legal," she continues, and you groan.

"Gross, Alva, he’s not a creep."

"I’m just saying, if your little connection gets you the answers to his tests, you could sell them and become rich."

"I already asked him, he said no," you say darkly, thinking of the nights you’ll have to spend studying to pass his exam. This makes Alva laugh her brilliant laugh, and you can’t help but smile, too.

"Damn," she grins, "I’d try if he wasn’t a guy."

You snort.

"You try with Mrs. Carter, I need the answers to Computational," you suggest, wiggling your eyebrows suggestively.

"You’re joking, but I bet once you get her out of her frumpy cardigans, she’s a real–"

"Okay, stop," you grown, the image of Mrs Carter taking off her cardigans worse than her keeping them on – if possible. Alva giggles.

"I’ll help you with Computational," she says, "if you help me with Quantum Mechanics."

"You’re good at both," you argue, and Alva shrugs.

"Not like you, though. I spent like four hours doing Miller’s assignment last night."

You want to tell her you didn’t do it at all, but before you can open your mouth, she spots a friend in the crowd, grabs your arm and drags you over to him.

The three of you sit down together, closer to the front than the week before, which gives you a direct line of sight to Joel’s desk. When he walks in, your stomach jumps – he’s wearing a tie today, a dark burgundy or blue, you aren’t sure from this distance, flecked with specks of white. Again, his hair is styled in that carelessly disheveled look you like so much, and the image of him putting gel in it makes you smile. He gets out his materials for the lecture, and looks up, his eyes finding yours – you smile and he gives a small nod. Again you’re struck by how different he acts in front of the class, how serious he seems. You think of his laid back manner when you had coffee, and struggle to make the images align. Joel clears his throat, and the chatter around you stops.

"Quiet, please, everyone. Thank you. So, last week, we found out that Dirac’s equation predicts the existence of antiparticles. But instead of just accepting that, let’s think deeper—mathematically, what feature of the equation forces this conclusion?"

Joel jumps right into the lecture, and just like last week, nobody raises their hands – you curse the people around you for their lethargy, because sure enough, Joel’s eyes land on you. Before you can shake your head to signal to him not to ask you, he calls your name.

"If I remember correctly, you were already familiar with Dirac’s equation last week. What would you say, what does the existence of negative-energy solutions tell us, and why couldn’t we just ignore them?"

You wish you could answer him, know he asked you because he was sure you’d know the answer, perhaps hoped your enthusiasm for the subject would get the rest of the students to participate more, but you didn’t do the assignment, and you’ve already half forgotten his question. You swallow.

"Um…I…I’m not sure, Sir," you say, watching the way his brows furrow, and looking down at your notes. Alva shoots you a curious look, and when she sees your expression, she raises her hand. You’re thankful to have Joel’s attention diverted, feeling like a fool in front of hundreds of students you’re trying to make friends with.

"Dirac’s equation gives positive and negative energy solutions, and at first, the negative ones didn’t make sense. Dirac suggested they represent antiparticles, like the positron, which he predicted. The idea was that electrons could, like, jump into these negative-energy states, creating a hole that looks like a positron, which was later confirmed experimentally," Alva explains instead of you.

"You're close, but electrons don’t actually 'jump into' negative-energy states. Instead, Dirac proposed that these states are already filled, forming what he called the Dirac Sea. A positron isn’t an electron jumping down, it’s actually a 'hole' left when a negative-energy electron gets excited to a positive-energy state. That distinction is important because it explains why positrons have the opposite charge. Good answer, though, thank you Ms. Bennet."

Joel’s eyes flicker over to you again, but you show no reaction, and he continues with his lecture without asking you another question. Alva glances at you inquiringly, and you sigh.

"I wanted to do the assignment yesterday, but my cramps were really bad," you explain quietly, and she nods sympathetically.

"Call me next time, I’ll send you my answers," she whispers, and you smile gratefully. It seems you really hit the jackpot in friendship when you sat down next to Alva.

***

After Joel’s lecture, you and Alva make your way over to the vending machine, because it has the sour patches she likes, and in her own words she’ll combust if she doesn’t eat some right fucking now.

"Shit," she curses, "they’re stuck."

"Let me," a voice comes from a behind you, and when you turn around, Joel is smiling at the two of you. "Took me a while to figure this thing out, too."

Alva steps aside, and Joel bangs his palm against the side of machine. You jump, but the sour patches make their tumbling way down to the dispenser.

"Great! Thanks, Professor Miller," Alva says, ripping the bag open and offering it to the two of you. To your surprise, Joel takes her up on it, and Alva grins at you.

"You were quiet during today’s lecture," Joel says tentatively, when he’s swallowed his sour patch "everything alright?"

You glance at your shoes.

"Um, yeah. I wasn’t feeling well yesterday, and I left your assignment for last, so…I didn’t do it."

Joel’s expression grows worried, and Alva glances between the two of you.

"Hey, I’m meeting Max for coffee," she tells you, "see you later?"

"Yeah," you answer, grateful she’s granting you this time alone with Joel, "see you, Alva."

When she’s gone, Joel is still looking at you with that worried look on his face, and you sigh.

"Sorry about the assignment," you say, "won’t happen again."

"I’m not worried about the assignment," Joel says earnestly, but then he turns his head, and you know he doesn’t want someone listening in. Sure, you can be seen chatting in the university cafe, but this conversation is rapidly blurring the lines between scholarly and – something else.

"I…have some materials in my office that might make it easier for you to catch up with the lectures again," Joel tells you, and you understand the underlying meaning. Let’s talk in my office.

"Thank you," you say, relieved, and Joel nods, eyes still glued to yours, brows still furrowed. You walk to his office making smalltalk about the lecture, which to anyone listening in would seem like a normal conversation between a professor and an interested student.

Joel opens the door to his office for you, and lets you step in first. It’s small, cramped bookshelves on the walls and a sturdy desk in the middle that is littered with notes, pencils, books, and a couple of old coffee mugs. You notice he put part of his books sideways onto the shelves, which you find weirdly endearing. This is the Joel you know – clutter and warmth.

He closes the door behind you, and you turn around to watch him drop his bag and walk over to the kettle in the corner of the room.

"Coffee?"

"Please," you sigh, "if you don’t have anything stronger."

He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t answer, just turns on the already filled kettle, and gets two clean cups for the two of you.

"I only have drip coffee," he tells you, "I don’t drink that crap the machines brew up."

"That’s fine, I enjoy the medieval feel of it."

"Watch it," he answers, a smile tugging on his lips, "don’t insult my coffee filter in front of me."

You grin, and walk over to his bookshelf to have a look.

"So, what’s going on?" he asks you while pouring the boiling hot water over the coffee grounds. Again, the Joel you remember – empathetic, but unusually direct. You sigh, turn around and shrug.

"Mom and Dad called yesterday, and I could tell they missed me, but I just…I cut them off after two minutes."

Joel places the cups on his desk, and leans against it. His sleeves are rolled up again, and when he crosses his arms, you feel that familiar pang in your stomach.

"And now I…I don’t know, I feel so guilty, Joel. They’re not even being dicks about it, but I just know they’d prefer for me to check in with them more…and the worst thing is, I know it’s not a big deal. They’ll get over it, they’ve got a good life without me constantly in it, so I don’t know why my stupid brain can’t just let this go, you know? One I miss you, darling, and I’m reduced to this pathetic mess, instead of just, I don’t know, getting my shit together."

You shake your head and clench your teeth, once again embarrassed to come crying to Joel about your parental issues, but he’s the only one you can tell. Sure, Alva would probably listen, but you don’t feel like explaining your family to a near stranger. Joel just gets it. Joel knows you.

He’s looking at you, arms still crossed, and for a second you worry he might not want to hear about your little breakdown, but then he sighs.

"You have your shit together all of the fuckin’ time, kid, I think that might be the problem," he tells you quietly. "You’ve always been so hard on yourself."

He’s right, once again he sees what you struggle to show the world, and his words make tears spring to your eyes. You will your eyeballs to suck them back in, but of course, Joel sees.

"Hey now," he says, taking a tentative step towards you. One tear drops from the end of your lashes and down your cheek, and the dam is broken again – they come spilling in floods. Joel crosses the room in a second, and there is a slight moment of hesitation between the two of you, before you bury your face in his chest, and let your restraint fall. You cry quietly, feel him wrap his arms around you, as he rocks you back and forth.

"You’re alright," he tells you, "Shhh, it’s okay, you’re alright."

"S-s-sorry about the assignment," you manage, and Joel’s hand starts stroking your back.

"Jesus, kid, stop worryin’ about the fucking assignment," he tells you, voice low and worried. "You don’t gotta be so strict with yourself. You’re doin’ just fine."

He smells so much like home, you think you might never stop crying.

"I don’t know what’s wrong with me," you hiccup, "One week here and I’m a mess already."

You feel Joel rest his chin on your head, and his arms tighten around you.

"There’s nothin’ wrong with you, you hear me? You hold yourself to high standards. Creates pressure, kid."

As always, he’s right of course – you want to excel academically, you don’t want to hurt your parents, you want to stay true to yourself and do what makes you happy, you want to make friends without compromising your grades. It’s impossible.

You breathe in shakily, your eyes closed, face buried in Joel’s chest, and for a second he is all that exists – just Joel, all around you, pulling you to the earth. Slowly, your breathing calms, Joel still rocking you soothingly, holding you close.

"There we go," he mutters, when your chest stops shaking, "that’s good."

When you pull away from him, he puts his hands on your shoulders to really look at you, and although you’re embarrassed by your outburst, you’re glad he doesn’t shy away from you.

"I want you to start being a little more lenient with yourself, alright? You don’t need to worry about an assignment on top of everything."

His hands are rubbing your shoulders, his eyes are kind and warm.

"Maybe not about yours, but I have like five other lectures –"

"Okay, so try to stop worrying about my assignments, just mine. Won’t bite your head off if you don’t do them, and I’ll only ask you questions when you raise your hand, alright? In fact, for the rest of the term, I want you to hand them in late."

Despite yourself, your lips pull up in a small smile.

"That’s silly, Joel," you say softly, but he shakes his head.

"It’s not silly, it’s practice to get you out of your comfort zone."

You consider his words for a moment. You do keep a pretty tight reign on yourself, and just the thought of doing every assignment late makes your skin crawl with anxiety. But when will you get another chance to step out of your comfort zone as safely as now, with Joel? He’s offering you a way to try it without actually risking your grades. And who knows, perhaps it actually will take a little bit of pressure off of you.

"Okay," you answer, staring up at Joel with puffy cheeks and teary eyes. "Alright."

He smiles at you, but he still looks worried and you wish he’d pull you close to him again. It’s such a relief to have this sort of human contact with someone who really knows you.

"Feel better?"

You sigh, and nod.

"It’s just a lot, you know, uni and my parents, and every social interaction feels like such a chore, cause I don’t know people yet. I feel like I’m not even relaxed when I’m asleep."

Joel hesitates for a moment, before he speaks, but when he does, he sounds determined.

"Come over tonight, I’ll make us somethin’ to eat, and you don’t have to worry about talkin’ to anyone. We’ll watch whatever you’d like. You still enjoy those crappy horror movies?"

You smile at the shared memory – Joel letting you use his living room to watch slashers your parents didn’t want you to see. One summer, when the heat was so stifling you barely went outside, you practically lived at his place, and when you’d seen all the DVDs he owned, he got you more from the video store.

"I do," you say quietly, the fact that Joel remembers more important to you than his proposal to spend the evening together. You feel significantly less alone, all of a sudden.

"Alright, then. Be over at seven,“ Joel tells you, and you nod, wiping your wet face with the back of your hand.

"Thank you, Joel," you say, and hug him again, because you don’t know how to tell him in words what you’re feeling, and his big, warm body against yours feels more than soothing.

"Course, kid. Just don’t tell Alva, or they’ll fire me."

You smile, your arms still wrapped around his neck, as he holds you.

"But I don’t wanna get you in trouble, what if–"

"No," Joel interrupts you, "no what ifs. No worryin’. I forbid it."

And you accept it, leave it to Joel, because he tells you to – because you don’t have any room in your head for more worries, and because you trust Joel not to do anything reckless. You trust him, period.

***

You text Alva you’re having dinner alone, that your cramps are still acting up, and you do feel slightly bad for lying, but you would never risk Joel’s job. The idea of having dinner with him at his place should make you nervous after your change in feelings about him, but you’re just looking forward to having a meal with someone who knows you, and lets you be yourself.

Joel asked you to be there at seven, so you spend the rest of the afternoon in your dorm room, wondering if you should change your outfit or if it would seem desperate – in the end, you keep the jeans but change into a blouse instead of a sweater. The part of you that stares at Joel’s forearms during class now wants to look pretty for him, so that he’ll ask you over again. You know you’re being ridiculous, but it doesn’t stop you from putting on your nicest perfume.

You’re ten minutes early, so you sit in your little second hand car and try not to panic. You know Joel is merely trying to be a good…friend? Ex-neighbor, Dad’s best friend turned professor? There’s no real etiquette to cling to in this situation, for either of you, and although you’re positive Joel doesn’t have any ulterior motives with you despite his flirting, you know he could lose his job if someone finds out you went to his house. Even if you just watch slashers together the way you did ten years ago. It makes you anxious to know he’d risk something clearly important to him for just that – he moved to a different state, quit his old job, started over completely, and is now willing to endanger that new life just because you’re stressed. At the same time it seems ridiculous anyone could forbid the two of you to spend time together after having known each other your entire life. The thought is absurd, and still, you need to be careful.

You get out of the car before you start to hyperventilate, and ring Joel’s doorbell – it feels strange for him to live in a new house. He opens the door with a smile, and absurd relief floods your veins when you realize he’s wearing an old Led Zeppelin shirt and a pair of worn jeans. This is your Joel.

"I come bearing gifts," you announce, stepping into the house.

“Christ, where did you get this?”, Joel asks, taking the six pack of beer from you, so you can take off your jacket. “I didn’t know they sold Shiner Bock outside of Texas, I’ve been survivin’ on Bud”.

“Brought it with me,” you explain, “figured it’d help if I got homesick, you know, in multiple ways.”

You grin, and Joel shakes his head good-naturedly.

“Old enough to drink, well I’ll be damned. I remember when you begged your Dad to let you have a coke and he asked me if I thought the caffeine would stunt your growth.”

“Did it?”

“It might’ve,” Joel says with a chuckle, “but he didn’t let you have it.”

“Well, he isn’t here now, so let’s put those in the fridge.”

“No," Joel mutters, “no, he ain’t.”

While Joel puts the beer away, you take a look around his living room – despite your reservations about the new house, it reminds you of his old place. It’s got the same masculine and warm feel to it, dark wood, books all over the place, no bells and whistles. Joel is a practical man, and it’s charmingly etched into every part of his life – except for his new work-look. The room isn’t as cluttered as you remember Joel’s old house back in Texas, but you assume he hasn’t had time to accumulate clutter yet. No old newspapers are lying around, no birthday cards stacking up. You wonder if he’s lonely here, teaching all by himself, hundreds of miles away from the place he last grew roots in.

“Do you miss home?” you ask him, when he comes back from the kitchen with two bottles of beer in his hands. He looks at ease, much more himself than back at university. His jeans are faded, his shirt a little too big on his already broad frame, and his hair is clean and curly the way you like it – no gel twisting it into all sorts of un-Joel-like styles. Warmth floods your chest at the sight of him taking a swig of his beer. His crowfeet are a little more pronounced, and his hair has more grey strands than it did back home, but he’s still got that distinctly warm, no-nonsense feel to him.

“Sometimes,” he answers, offering you the second bottle. Your hand brushes his when you take it from him. “But I’m pretty busy here, you know, got a whole lotta lectures to plan, papers to grade and that sort of stuff.”

You nod, and sip at your beer.

“Have you…you know, met people? Made friends here?”

Joel plops down on the couch, and smiles up at you.

“You worried about my social life?”

You shrug, and smile almost timidly.

“You know me, kid, I like bein’ by myself.”

That’s true, for as long as you’ve known Joel, he’s been alone. You know he has nieces and nephews who adore him, and your Dad mentioned a woman once, but it must have been at least twenty years since they were together. You wonder why Joel doesn’t seem to want that sort of a domestic life, surely many women would be happy to let him put a ring on them.

You walk over to the window, and watch a blackbird tug at a writhing worm.

“Have you met someone at uni you wanna be by yourself with?” you ask with a small grin, turning back to find Joel already watching you. “I heard Mrs. Carter’s still single.”

“She’s very intelligent,” Joel says earnestly. You give him credit for not laughing about his colleague, and suddenly you feel bad for calling her frumpy with Alva. “But I think I’ll leave her to her simulations. Why am I bein’ interrogated?”

“Sorry,” you mumble, and glance out of the window again, “just making conversation.”

“Your turn, then,” Joel answers, and takes another swig of beer. “Any frat boys catch your eye? Or frat girls?”

You glance at him, a smile on your lips, and raise your eyebrows.

“Hey, I don’t discriminate. I thought, maybe Alva…”

“No,” you answer, feeling fond of him for considering the possibility. “Alva’s a friend. The guys are…well, they’re frat boys.”

Your voice carries enough disgust for Joel to laugh.

“Right,” he says, and his eyes are warm when they meet yours again. “Just us two loners, then."

“Cheers,” you say with a smile.

“Cheers.”

***

Joel’s cooking is a mystery to you – he loves to eat, and when he does cook, it’s always delicious, but he only ever makes one of five dishes. Again, that practicality shining through. Why try something new if you’ve perfected your routine? He made pasta for you, wasn’t sure if you’re still vegetarian and makin’ your Dad’s hair fall out, and you smile into the neck of your beer bottle, when you watch him drizzle dressing onto a carefully arranged side-salad. Throughout dinner, you tell him how much you love it at least five times, because you can tell he put effort into the meal. You know it’s not technically a date, but having a dinner he made just for you, in his home – it feels like one.

You steer the conversation away from heavy topics like your parents. Although Joel offered you this evening to make you feel better, you want to spend it with him rather than in your head, so you ask him about books and music, about his lectures, about Tommy and the kids. You like watching how his face lights up whenever he talks about something he particularly loves. Joel is a quiet man, but you found out years ago it isn’t shyness, but a disinterest in most mundane topics – he doesn’t like gossip or superficial small talk. When he tells you Tommy made him godfather of all of his children, the pride is evident in his voice, and you don’t have to fake your enthusiasm, although it amuses you, too – Tommy loving his big brother enough not to consider anyone else.

"She calls me uncle Joe," he tells you with a chuckle, "Can’t pronounce her Ls yet, but I’ve considered legally changing my name."

When you’re done eating, you help him clear the table, but when you reach for the sponge to do the dishes, Joel shakes his head.

"Let me do that later, kid. You wanna watch a movie?"

So the two of you plop down on the couch with a bag of M&Ms and another round of beer, and Joel hands you the remote.

"Go wild," he says, chuckling when you excitedly turn on he TV to open Netflix.

"Wow, a streaming service? I thought you’d just hoard DVDs for the rest of your life."

Joel huffs, and instead of answering, he leans forward, and reaches for something under his couch table. When he turns his head, he’s got glasses on his face, thick-rimmed and black, and so startlingly sexy, you almost drop the remote.

"You…you’ve got glasses?"

"Yeah," he answers, his eyes meeting yours, and you swallow. "When your eyesight deteriorates, that’s when you know you’re gettin’ old."

You hum but don’t answer, just hold his gaze for a second and look back to the screen. You try to ignore the familiar pang in your stomach at the sight of Joel in his new glasses, and skip through movie after movie, mumbling seen it, seen it, that one sucks, seen it, until Joel reaches over and snatches the remote from you.

"Hey–"

"I can’t read anything if you skip through them that quickly."

"You’re not supposed to read, you’re supposed to go with the vibe of the cover."

He glances at you with furrowed brows.

"Okay, sorry, didn’t know you’re a filmbro," you grumble, but it’s almost entirely fake – you couldn’t be annoyed with him, not when he pushes his glasses up his nose, and carefully considers which button to press on the remote.

"I don’t know what that means," he answers, and starts reading the description of a romantic comedy about Christmas.

"I’m not watching that."

"You don’t even know what it’s about."

"It’s September, Joel."

He huffs again, but finally reaches the horror movies. Surprisingly, it doesn’t take the two of you long to pick one, and the thought of two hours of brainless, scary entertainment on a couch with Joel makes you practically melt into his couch.

You can feel Joel’s eyes on you during the opening credits, so you glance over and he smiles.

"Comfy?" he asks, his voice hoarse from relaxation.

"Yeah," you answer, and smile when hands you a blanket. He’s not exactly close to you, but it still feels a little intimate when you spread the blanket out and offer him the other end. He moves over a little, so that the blanket covers his legs, and when you concentrate you can feel his body heat next to you, so you try hard not to – and instead get lost in the movie.

It’s not particularly good, but the story does get under your skin a little, and when there’s an unexpected shriek, you violently jump and instinctively move closer to Joel. He chuckles, but doesn’t give any reaction to your arm suddenly pressing against his. He doesn’t move away, either, so you don’t, fear suddenly not being the only thing bubbling up in your stomach.

"Jesus," you mumble, the creeping music making you anticipate another jumpscare. You’re right, it does come, but prepared though you are, you still wince, and turn away from the screen slightly. Out of sight, out of mind. Joel turns around, too, and when he sees your widened eyes, he grins.

"How’s that Christmas movie lookin’ now?"

"I’m not scared," you say, and there is some truth to it, "I’m just not good with jumpscares."

When the next one comes, you can’t help it, you clutch his arm next to you, your nails digging into his firm muscle, and Joel glances at you again.

"Sorry," you say quickly, letting go of his forearm now marked with five tiny crescent shapes. "Jesus, Joel, sorry."

"It’s fine," he says, and the amusement is evident in his voice, "you sure you’re into this? There might be some cartoons–"

He stops talking when you glare at him, but his mouth is twitching under his beard. You’re determined to watch the entire movie, and you try not to let any reaction show, wanting to prove Joel wrong.

There is one particularly scary scene – it’s not necessarily violent, but the music and shaky camera movements make your pulse race, and you turn your head slightly, so as to look at something else. Joel glances at you again, but he doesn’t laugh this time, just puts a heavy hand on your shoulder. It’s grounding, the warmth of it, how his thumb digs into your muscle and his fingers spread out over your back and neck.

"You don’t gotta force yourself to watch this, kid," Joel says gently, all teasing humor gone.

"No," you say stubbornly, but move even closer to him. His touch is a welcome distraction from the movie, and although you know it’s stupid and reckless, you lean into him, and Joel puts his arm around you. It’s closer than you’ve been to him except for hugging, and your heartbeat starts to quicken for all the wrong, non-horror reasons. When you flinch, Joel tugs you against his side, and it feels natural to hide your face in his shoulder.

He was never touchy with you, or anyone for that matter, so something must have changed. You wonder if he’s trying to comfort you, or if you might not be the only one who can feel that strange pull between the two of you.

When the movie ends, Joel regrettably removes his arm from around your shoulders to switch off the TV, and although you’re slightly disappointed, you scold yourself for expecting something else.

"Not bad," Joel says with a small smile, and pushes his glasses up his nose. "Very brave."

You scoff, but feel the corners of your mouth twitching, too.

"I used to be less of a wimp, but I guess you soften with age."

"You’re twenty-three," Joel argues, "that’s young."

Yeah, too young. Too young to lean over and kiss him, or climb into his lap, or expect anything other than paternal care when he’s got his arm around you. You look at your lap, all of a sudden feeling stupid and silly for having dreamed up an absurd fantasy about the man in front of you.

"Hey," Joel says gently, "what’s wrong?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, "nothing, I had a really great evening. Thanks, Joel."

You can tell you’ve confused him, but he nods, doesn’t question your sudden change of mood, and stands when you get up from the couch.

"Anytime, kid. You call me if you’re havin’ a bad time, alright? My door’s always open."

He’s so kind, so recklessly, stupidly, lovingly kind, and all of it is directed at you. You curse yourself for it, but again you feel that familiar burn in your eyes. Joel reaches out and easily pulls you towards his big body, hugging you the way he did in his office just this afternoon. He doesn’t ask you what brought on your tears, just lets you cry into his Led Zeppelin shirt that smells so much like home, like a childhood you won’t get back to. You remember whiffs of that smell when you were watching movies on his couch while he was at work, too pissed off at your parents to spend the summer at home. This scent was there when you attended a neighborhood barbecue after fighting with your father and Joel grilled some vegan sausages for you without comment or question. He’s always looked out for you like this, quietly, without demanding an explanation, just a solid, comforting presence in your life.

Your tears stop after a couple of minutes, and you take a step away from Joel, wiping your face. He looks so worried again, brows all furrowed and arms hanging limply at his side. Didn’t he flirt with you, though? Didn’t he prepare dinner for you the way a date would, ask you about your dating life, ask you to coffee? You don’t think you would be able to handle another evening like this one not knowing what Joel really thinks, so in a moment of hazy recklessness, you lean up.

His eyes meet yours, all warm and strangely unguarded, but before your lips brush his, a hand on your shoulder stops you. Without saying something, you move away from him, and nod to yourself, his reaction all the information you needed.

"Sorry," you say very quietly, not managing much else now that you’ve humiliated yourself in front of the only person you really know in a six hundred mile radius. Joel runs a hand through his soft hair, and inhales deeply.

"No," he says, his voice a little strained, "no, don’t be. I just…Jesus, kid."

He rubs his palm over his beard in such a familiar way, your chest aches a little. It’s ridiculous how much you want to touch his face, to feel him again, skin on skin. So you don’t turn and run the way your embarrassed heart is telling you to, just watch him collect his thoughts, standing in front of him like a wet and beaten dog.

"Look," he begins, "I won’t say I’m not flattered, but that’s…it’s a bad fuckin’ idea. It’s…it’s chaos, and on top of that most people would argue it’s wrong."

You swallow. You know all of this, have turned it over in your head ever since you stared at Joel’s rolled up sleeves for two hours on that first Monday, but hearing him say it makes your stomach churn.

"Yeah," you mutter, and trace Joel’s shadow with the very tip of your foot, "yeah, of course. Sorry I put you in that position, wasn’t right."

Your face still feels puffy, and you know you’re probably all red and pathetic looking, begging Joel for scraps of his attention, but all of a sudden, he lifts his hand up to your face, and cups it in his broad palm. His thumb strokes your cheek, and when you meet his eye, the expression on his face is tender.

"It’s alright," he tells you softly, "I can see you worryin’ at the speed of light in that pretty head of yours."

Something in your chest flutters at his words, at the rough and warm cadence of his voice. He reads you so easily, one turn of your head and he knows you’re lost to your thoughts.

"I shouldn’t have let myself toy with this idea," he continues, and your stomach flips. "I should’ve realized you’d pick up on it. It’s on me, alright? It’s on me not to start anythin’."

You can hear the implication – I’m the adult here. It’s not what you want to hear, but just the mention of Joel toying with this idea, as he put it, is enough to lift your spirits. So you weren’t crazy.

"I’m an adult," you say weakly, never having felt more like a child. Joel nods.

"You are, but I’m still in a position of power here. Be wrong, to abuse that."

His thumb is still moving over your cheek slowly, making it hard to think straight.

"So dinner and a movie doesn’t abuse it?"

You don’t want to argue, you don’t know why you keep disagreeing with him, and the way his face falls, you wish you hadn’t said it.

"No, it…it does, you’re right. Jesus, of course it does. I don’t blame ya for bein’ ang-"

"I’m not angry," you say softly, and tentatively turn your head in Joel’s hand. You press a kiss to his palm, his warm skin pressed right against your mouth. "I’m not your student, Joel. I mean, of course I am, but I know you. It’s different."

Joel’s eyes are glued to your face, and he looks so conflicted you wish he’d just throw you out of his house, if only to solve his dilemma.

"It’s still wrong," Joel mutters, his eyes glued to your lips since they brushed his skin "even if you take away the fact that I’m your fuckin’ professor. Your Dad…"

"My Dad is half a continent away and finds a way to be unhappy with whatever choices I make, so I might as well make the ones I want to."

The very first day, before you even met Joel, you decided to do what makes you happy while in university, and although this certainly wasn’t what you had in mind, you know it’s what you want. The only thing you want, in fact.

Joel sighs, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

"Joel, I’m not trying to…look, if I’m wrong about this, just tell me, but I feel…I just wanna be close to you all of the fucking time," you say quietly, "and it’s okay if you don’t, really. I just…I want you to know it’s not nothing to me."

Saying I don’t just want to hook up with you would feel too straight forward or crass, but you think Joel gets the gist of what you’re trying to say, and he closes his eyes briefly. You study his face behind his glasses, the wrinkles and freckles from years in the sun. You do feel anxious about his answer, but whatever it is, you’re glad you told him. It’s out in the world now, the way you feel when he holds you, and he can do with it what he pleases – you’ve handed him the reigns.

"I…I know what you mean. Me too," he says very quietly after a beat, his eyes open and looking directly into yours again.

A triumphant pang of affection pulses through you, and you put your hand over Joel’s, which is still resting on your cheek. He looks conflicted, but his other hand holds your waist now, and tugs your smaller body closer to his again. He’s solid as a brick wall in front of you, and you figure you’re allowed to touch, so you rest your hand on his shoulder.

"What am I gonna do with you?" Joel mutters, and strokes your lower lip with his thumb. If you had more guts, you’d let it slip into your mouth, but you’re still afraid he’ll pull back if you make a wrong move, so you just let him caress your mouth tenderly.

"Whatever you’d like," you answer just as quietly, and you know it sounds sexual, but you mean it in every way – if Joel wants to be nothing but your professor, you’d take it, and if he wants to keep you here in his house indefinitely, you’d let him. Joel keeps looking at you, taking you in as if he’s considering whether the risks outweigh whatever magnetic or gravitational pull the two of you have between you.

"Stay," he say after a while, and although his face looks slightly regretful, his voice is determined, "just…sleep here tonight. I like havin’ you here."

You want him to kiss you, to pull you onto his lap on the couch, to take you upstairs right now, but Joel seems to be restraining himself, so you just nod.

"Me too," you whisper, echoing his words back to him, and for just a second, his thumb digs into your lip a little harder, but then he pulls away.

"Testin’ my goddamn restraint," he mutters, and takes a step away from you. "I’ll get you something to sleep in."

***

Joel gets you one of his band tees you love so dearly, and just the idea of being enveloped by something that smells like him all night makes it a little easier when Joel tells you he’ll take the couch instead of inviting you to sleep with him in his bed.

"No," you say softly, "it’s fine, you just sleep in your bed, Joel. I’ll take the couch."

He looks critical, so you offer him a soft smile.

"I don’t know if your back could take it," you tease, and he seems torn up between laughing and frowning. In the end, he just shakes his head, mutters something that sounds a lot like bad fuckin’ idea, and gets you a blanket and pillow.

He brings you a clean toothbrush and towel, let’s you use his bathroom (you look at the shower the entire time you’re brushing your teeth, trying hard not to think about what Joel looks like using it in the mornings), and when you’re done changing, you unlock the door again.

He’s there, sitting on the edge of his bed, his eyes trailing over your form in his much too big shirt. It’s long as a dress on you, coming down to your naked thighs. Joel visibly swallows and gets up from the bed.

"You got everythin’ you need?"

"Yes. Thank you, Joel."

There’s a beat of silence and you almost think Joel’s about to cross the room, but he just runs his palm over his beard the way he always does, and nods.

"Alright. Just shout if there’s…well, you know. I’ll be here."

"I will."

"Alright. Okay…goodnight, kid."

"Night," you almost whisper, voice soft, and right before you reach the door, Joel clears his throat.

"I…you were right about dinner and the movie. I wasn’t just tryin’ to be friendly," he says quietly, and your stomach swirls. Before you can walk over to Joel and do something about it, he sighs.

"Sleep tight, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.

***

You wake to the sound of something dripping, and when your eyes flutter open, you can see Joel’s back from the kitchen. He’s wearing his work outfit again, a white button down and dark pants, sleeves rolled up. It smells like coffee, and with a smile you realize he must be brewing his beloved coffee – no machine, just a filter. He looks broad, even from your spot on the couch, and you enjoy peeking in on him. You study his movements, the way he reaches for a cup, how his fingers absentmindedly drum on the kitchen counter while he waits.

When he turns around, his eyes find yours, and he smiles.

"Mornin’. Did I wake ya?"

"’S fine," you yawn, pulling the blanket up to your chin, not yet ready to get up. "I have classes at ten anyway."

"’S eight," Joel tells you, "Coffee?"

"Yes please," you answer, and stretch your limbs under the blanket.

Joel brings you a cup, complete with a little bit of milk and sugar, and you move your feet so he can sit down on the couch.

"Sleep well?"

You sip your coffee, let it burn your tongue and close your eyes at the taste. When you open them, Joel’s gaze lingers on your face.

"Yeah," you answer, "thank you for…you know."

He nods, takes a sip of his coffee, and looks at his lap. He looks like he wants to say something, but he’s very quiet, and you feel anxiety bubbling up in your stomach.

"Joel, do you want me to leave? It’s fine if you do," you ask him softly, not wanting to make things awkward for him. It would be rational of him to ask you to leave, the smart and ethical thing to do.

"No," he answers quietly, still not looking at you, "I want you to stay."

Stay? On a Tuesday morning, after you almost kissed him and he told you he couldn’t do that, after you spent the night on his couch? When you have classes in two hours, haven’t showered yet, are half naked and wearing his clothes, on his couch under his blanket? When you’ve got friends wondering where you are and probably ten unanswered messages from Alva?

"Alright," you say, agreeing as easy as breathing.

Finally, he looks up, and his expression is so conflicted you reach out for him. Your hand finds his and you squeeze it. He keeps looking at you, his hand limp in your grasp, as if any movement of his muscles would incriminate him.

"You shouldn’t," he tells you earnestly. "Stay, I mean. You shouldn’t stay."

"I know."

You don’t let go of his hand. He doesn’t move his away.

"It’s a really, really bad idea," he adds, and you’re not sure who he is trying to talk out of whatever this is. "It’s risky. Could blow up both our lives."

"Yeah," you say, and watch him sip his coffee, "okay."

Then, a tentative flex of his fingers against yours, and finally, he’s squeezing your hand just as tightly, and before you can process what that means, Joel is leaning over you, dangerously close. Your breathing quickens, you register how soft his hair looks, how strong his hand is. He leans in further and you sit up a little, still cocooned in his blanket. His face is close to yours, his eyes fiery with something you can’t pinpoint, and you sigh, when he closes the gap between you.

He tastes of coffee and toothpaste, and you wish you’d gotten the chance to shower, but the thought disappears almost immediately when you hear Joel groan. His kisses you languidly, deeply, and your fingers come up to his beautiful arm, barely wrapping around half of his biceps. He cradles the side of your face, pulls you closer, makes your stomach clench with need. It feels inevitable, the way he touches you, like you only exist in a physical form to be touched by him.

His free hand peels the blanket off your body, lets it slide to the floor without ever stopping his the kiss, and you moan softly, when his hand touches your waist. The sound makes him break away, stare down at you, pupils blown wide.

"Fuck, you look good in my clothes," he mutters, nudging your jaw with his nose, and pressing a kiss there. "You should really, really go home."

Your head falls back slightly to give him better access to your neck, and he brushes his lips over your pulse point. Your heart skips a beat.

"I – I know," you breathe, fingers digging into his arm. His beard scratches your skin deliciously, and it takes everything in you not to whimper or beg. Joel’s hand slips under your shirt – his shirt – and instead of finding your waist again, he digs his thumb into your hip, stroking the fabric of your cotton panties. The fire in your stomach burns brighter, and you almost buck up into him. Joel Miller, the Joel Miller who until recently had a key to your childhood home, who lent it to you whenever you forgot yours inside – he’s sucking bruises into your skin, and toying with your panties. It’s dizzying, his familiar voice when he hums in satisfaction, even rougher than usually.

His fingers trace the waistband of your panties towards the front, until they find a small, silky bow, and Joel groans. He doesn’t take your underwear off, doesn’t even touch you where you need him the most, just keeps playing with the little bow, until your hips twitch without your permission. A little lower, and he would be able to feel how wet you are, how wet you have been all night. You didn’t do anything about it, not while you were a guest in his house. It would have felt wrong. You can’t imagine anything feeling more right than Joel’s mouth and hands on you, though.

"Jesus," Joel curses, "I should stop bef–"

"No," you whine, all dignity turned to hot air by Joel’s fingers, "please, Joel, please don’t stop."

He curses again, and moves his big body so that he’s not just hovering above you, but actually on top of you, your thighs falling open for him easily. At the movement, his shirt hikes up your thighs, and you know you’re basically on display for him, your soaked underwear leaving little to the imagination. He’s still fully clothed, his perfect button down all wrinkled now.

"Look at you," Joel breathes, lightheaded with desire, "this all for me?"

So he saw, when you moved to accommodate his broad form, saw how soaked you are, knows you ruined your panties just because he kissed you.

"Yes," you breathe, "yes, please–"

Before you can beg further, his finger presses down on your clit, and he watches your face contort in pleasure, as it shoots up your spine. You whimper, staring into his eyes, and he stares right back, as you start to grind your hips against his palm.

Your head feels blissfully empty, all worries about this relationship, uni, your parents, gone from you with a simple, practiced movement of his hand. The whimpers keep falling from your lips, and Joel curses.

"So beautiful," he mutters, "tell me what you need, angel."

It’s not a question, it’s an order.

"I – fuck, I need you i–inside," you groan, and Joel’s lips find yours again.

"Yeah? Need me to fuck you good, even though they’ll throw us both out?"

It shouldn’t turn you on. You’re jeopardizing both your own and Joel’s career, and he’s turning it into dirty talk. Still, your pussy doesn’t lie, and the way it throbs for him, aching to get him inside, makes all doubts disappear from your mind.

"Yes," you answer, unable to say much more as Joel keeps drawing tight circles into your clit.

Your hands drift from his arms towards his front, and Joel curses, when you paw at his belt buckle. It takes you a second, but then it’s open, the sound of the metal exciting you – it sounds like a promise.

Joel finally tugs your panties down, and for a second you’re self–conscious about not being clean shaven, but the second he sees you bare and glistening for him, his fingers dip into your folds, gathering your wetness with no hesitation.

"Fuck me," he groans, bringing his hand up to his face and tasting you, holding eye–contact the entire time, "prettiest pussy I’ve seen in my life."

You twitch under him, dragging your gaze away from his eyes and to his fingers. A moan escapes you, your hands have gone slack on his waistband, and Joel smiles down at you. Then, he does the same motion again, drags the tips of his thick fingers through your sticky arousal, but instead of sucking them clean himself, he holds them up to your mouth. His eyes burn, when you wrap your lips around them without a moments hesitation, and he feeds you your own slick.

"Taste so sweet, huh?"

You don’t answer, just swirl your tongue around his fingers, and suck on them. Joel watches your mouth intently, lets you take your time.

"Good girl," he praises you, and you clench around nothing, "so fuckin’ needy for me."

He drags his fingers from your mouth, and finally pushes into you, the stretch much tighter than with two of your own. Your head falls backwards, and Joel curls his fingers.

"No, baby, look down here," he orders, and immediately you lift your head again, and watch him pump two thick digits in and out of you. It’s dizzying to think it’s the same hand that waved to you from over his fence for years and years. You feel a coil building in your stomach, and you moan.

"Fuck, Joel," you moan, his name leaving a delicious aftertaste in your mouth. His beautiful forearm flexes with every movement, your slick is dripping down his fingers, and those damn sleeves are still perfectly rolled up.

With a few more curls of his fingers, you gush around him, barely having time to warn him, and he praises you, calls you his good girl, drags his fingers against that spongey spot inside of you until you see stars.

When he slips his fingers out of you and holds them up to your face again, you clean them up with your mouth as Joel watches with bright eyes. To think that he’s the same man who taught you Dirac not twenty-four hours ago – already, you want him inside again. When you’re done, he fumbles with his own clothes, and you watch him this time instead of helping.

"You look so good like this," you mumble, eyes raking over his broad form, "Professor."

His eyes snap up to yours, and you grin.

"Fuckin’ Christ, kid," he mutters, popping open the buttons on his shirt, "you can’t say shit like that."

"You don’t like it? You know, I watched you during your lectures and dreamed about…well, about this."

His expression is unreadable, but if you’re not mistaken, his hands move even faster now, and then he shrugs out of his shirt. You almost moan at the sight of his naked torso, so broad and solid.

"You need to pay attention in class," Joel answers, as he opens his pants. Your breathing grows a little shallow when he reveals his boxers underneath, his bulge huge.

"Can’t," you mumble, "not with you looking like this."

He chuckles at that, at the honesty and need in your answer.

"Don’t worry," he says softly, "I’ll fuck it outta you. Won’t be needing’ me in class, not if I’m still leakin’ out of you."

Your lips part, your pussy clenches – a smile tugs on the corners of Joel’s mouth at your reaction. He drags down his boxer shorts, and your eyes snap towards his cock, so thick and dripping in precum. You whimper, you can’t help it, and Joel’s smile widens.

"We’ll make it fit, baby," he says, reading your mind, and then bends down and kisses you again. You try to tug your shirt upwards, but Joel’s hands find your wrists and he holds them tight.

"No, want to fuck you in it," he breathes against your lips, and you press your hips upwards until he groans. He pumps his fist over his cock a couple of times, and aligns it with your entrance.

"Deep breath, baby," he mutters, and you obey, staring up at him as he starts pressing into you. It’s tight, much tighter than his two fingers, and your eyes glass over with pain, but Joel goes slow. His hand strokes your tummy, helps you relax, while he pushes on consistently. You feel like he’s punching the air from your lungs, eyes wide with the stretch of him, as he nips at your jaw and neck to distract you.

"Know it’s a lot, but you can take it, angel."

"Y-yes," you moan, and screw your eyes shut, "please don’t stop, Joel."

Joel’s breathing is ragged with restraint, and suddenly his hips snap forwards – and he’s fully buried inside of your tight body, nestled right against your cervix.

"Back to Joel, are we?" he teases, and gives you a couple of seconds to get used to him. You whimper and claw at his arm.

"I – ah – I’ll call you Professor Miller ’f you want," you slur, as he starts dragging his cock out of you again. You tremble under him, the feeling almost more intense than when he pushed inside of you.

"Yeah? That get you off? Or – fuck– is it the fact that I’m friends with your parents?"

It really, really should be a turn off, to be talking about your parents right now, but the way Joel says it, the way he points out just how debauched it is what you’re doing – you can’t help but moan. You blush, too, can feel the heat in your face, but you’re tired of being ashamed of wanting him the way you do.

"Both," you answer, and this time Joel groans, his hips snapping into you at a rougher pace. The head of his cock hits your spot every time, and you let out little sounds of pleasure with every drag of his cock, unable to form a coherent sentence. Joel’s hand finds your clit again, rubbing circles as his other one pressing down on your stomach.

"Feel that?" he asks you, and you do, you feel him all up in your guts, "you take it so well baby, take all ’f me."

"Yes," you answer, eyes glassy with pleasure, "want all of you, Joel."

He bites your shoulder, keeps rutting into you, and soon you feel another orgasm building.

"Close – ah – so close," you whimper, and Joel speeds up his thrusts just slightly. You clench around him, right on the edge.

"Come for me, angel, give it to me."

You do, your hips bucking, back arching.

"Ah – fuck, Joel, Prof–"

"Say it," Joel orders, fucking you through the waves of pleasure.

"Professor."

He comes, too, twitching deep inside of you and spilling rope after rope of come. It feels right, like you’re his. His groan is rough, his thrusts sloppy, and you feel your pussy spasm around him in a third, weaker orgasm, or maybe it’s just aftershocks from your second. You’re limp underneath him, letting him use your body how he needs to.

"Fuck," he curses, "did so good for me."

He slips out of you, and you can feel his spend drip out of you. You’re weak, soft like jelly, sweaty and entirely satisfied.

"Jesus," you breathe, when he falls down next to you, his couch mercifully being big enough.

"Yeah," he answers, "Jesus."

***

Turns out, Joel Miller is a dirty talking bastard during sex, and a big softie afterwards. He makes you tea, strokes your hair while you sip it, then carries you up to his shower and gently washes your body his his sponge. Throughout, he’s quiet, and you wonder if it was too much, the mention of him being your professor, of your parents, but you’re too afraid to ask. He brushes your forehead with his lips when he dries you off, and pulls another of his shirts over you head. Your panties are entirely ruined, it’s all you’re wearing.

When you’re clean again, and relaxed, Joel pulls you onto his bed, wrapping you up in his arms.

"Did you…was that too much?" he asks you softly fingertips tracing over your thigh lazily.

"It was just right," you answer quietly, and he hums.

"You didn’t feel like you…I mean when you called me Professor, you wanted to do that, right?"

You look up at him, and press a soft kiss against his jaw.

"Of course, Joel. Wanted everything we did, I promise."

He nods, but you can tell there’s still something bothering him.

"You know that’s not what you are to me, though, right?" Your voice is soft. "You’re just Joel."

He brushes the top of your head with his lips.

"I mean it," you press on when he doesn’t answer, "it’s like a costume, Joel. I know it’s your job, but it’s…I don’t think of you as like, an authority figure or something. I just thought you looked hot in that slutty shirt."

"Slutty–?" he sputters and you laugh.

"Sure, you know, with your sleeves rolled up, and that first button popped open."

"’S not slutty."

"You showed your forearms. Half the lecture hall felt like a victorian man seeing ankles for the first time."

Joel makes an exasperated sound, half amused and half offended.

"I mean it," you say again after beat, humor gone from your tone, "and it’s not just sex to me. You know that."

"Yeah," Joel answers slowly. "’S more to me, too."

It’s a hell of an admission.

"What are we gonna do?", you ask quietly, and Joel sighs.

"You’re gonna go to class," he says, voice dark, "and I’ll try very, very hard not to call your father and tell him I’m fallin’ for his daughter."

You bury your face in his chest. With anyone else, it would be too much, too fast, too intense. But this is Joel. It’s not fast if you’ve known him your whole life, is it? You kiss his chest, and he seems to understand.

"We’ll figure it out," Joel says quietly, pressing a kiss to your hair.

For a second you do want your parents to know, want them to see that someone does treat you like an adult, want to look them in the eye and say I’m with Joel now and there’s nothing you can do about it. I have my own life now and it includes this kind man. It’s childish, you know it is. You lean up, catch Joel’s mouth in a kiss.

"Yeah," you answer, “We’ll figure it out, Professor.”

#event horizon #dbf!joel x reader #dbf!joel #dbf!joel miller #professor!Joel miller #professor!joel #joel miller x reader #joel x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel x you #Joel Miller x you #joel miller #pedro pascal characters

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meinii · 1 day ago

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“boy dad Zayne”

summary: you and Zayne had a son whose personality is just like his dad’s ໒꒰ྀི ´͈ ᵕ `͈ ꒱ྀི১

content: fluff, a baby!

୨୧･｡｡･♡･∴･♡･｡｡･୨୧

the first time Zayne held him, he thought, he’s too small

too small for his hands, too small for this world

but when those tiny fingers grasped his own—tight, insistent, unyielding—Zayne realized something

this boy, his son, would be just as stubborn as him

—

“dada,” a small voice whispered

Zayne turned from his desk to see his son standing at the doorway, brown hair a tousled mess, big, familiar eyes blinking up at him

“mama’s in the kitchen” the boy continued, lowering his voice like they were discussing classified information

Zayne smirked, already knowing where this was going “is she?”

his son nodded, stepping closer “we should go now”

“are you sure?”

“yes,” the boy said, looking so serious it was almost comical “before she comes back”

Zayne sighed, pretending to consider. then he stood, holding his hand out

his son took it instantly

together, they moved silently through the house, past the living room, past the dining table—until they reached their destination

the kitchen.

“I’ll get the chocolates,” Zayne murmured, already reaching for the highest shelf “you go for the cookies.”

his son nodded, moving quickly, barely making a sound

Zayne had to bite back a smile. he really is just like me

“got them!” the boy whispered excitedly, holding up the stolen sweets

“good,” Zayne said, grabbing the chocolate bars “now let’s—”

“what do you two think you’re doing?”

they froze

slowly, Zayne turned to see you standing at the doorway, arms crossed, lips pressed into a firm line

his son immediately hid the cookies behind his back

Zayne, however, simply sighed “you weren’t supposed to be back yet”

“and you weren’t supposed to be stealing sweets before dinner” you shot back, giving them both the look

Zayne exhaled, exchanging a glance with his son

“we’re in trouble” the boy muttered

“very” Zayne confirmed

you stepped forward, taking the chocolates from his hands and the cookies from your son’s

“no more sweets,” you said firmly

“especially you” you added, flicking Zayne’s forehead

he smirked “I don’t know what you mean. I was just following my son’s lead”

“oh, so now it’s his fault?” you huffed

Zayne bent down, ruffling the boy’s hair “we’re in this together, aren’t we?”

his son grinned “yeah!”

you sighed, shaking your head “I swear, raising you both is exhausting”

“but you love us” Zayne teased

you rolled your eyes “unfortunately.”

—

when you got sick, they took it very seriously

Zayne didn’t leave your side, making sure you had everything you needed

his son, however, took it a step further

“mama, drink your tea” he ordered, standing beside the bed with his little hands on his hips

you smiled weakly “I will, sweetheart”

“now” he insisted

Zayne smirked, sitting beside you “you heard him”

you sighed but took a sip “happy?”

your son nodded, satisfied

“good,” he said “because dada and I have a plan.”

you raised a brow “a plan?”

Zayne crossed his arms “we’re making sure you rest properly. no getting up, no working, and definitely no sneaking out of bed”

you groaned “I’m not that sick”

“you are,” your son said, climbing onto the bed “and dada says you have to listen to the doctor”

Zayne smirked “he’s right”

you sighed, defeated

“fine,” you relented “but at least let me—”

“shhh,” your son pressed a finger to your lips

you blinked

“rest” he whispered

Zayne chuckled “you heard him”

you sighed again, lying back

Zayne pulled the blanket over you, pressing a kiss to your forehead

“good girl” he murmured

you rolled your eyes but smiled

your son snuggled into your side, holding your hand

“I love you, mama” he whispered

Zayne’s heart clenched

you squeezed his tiny hand “I love you too, sweetheart”

and Zayne, watching the two of you, thought—I love you both more than anything

—

one evening, you walked into the study and nearly melted on the spot

Zayne sat on the couch, a medical book open in his hands, his glasses resting on the bridge of his nose

next to him, curled up against his side, was your son—holding a children’s book, wearing his little glasses, looking equally serious

your heart clenched

he really is a mini Zayne

they looked so alike—both absorbed in their reading, both adjusting their glasses at the same time, both so incredibly cute you could hardly stand it

you stood there for a moment, just admiring them

then, as if sensing your gaze, Zayne looked up

his lips curled “enjoying the view?”

you smiled, stepping closer “very.”

your son looked up too, pushing his glasses up his nose

“mama, we’re reading” he said, his tone so much like Zayne’s that you had to bite back a laugh

“i can see that,” you teased, sitting beside them “what are you reading, sweetheart?”

he held up his book “it’s about space!”

Zayne smirked “he insisted on reading something educational”

your son nodded “like dada!”

your heart melted

you ran a hand through his soft brown hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead

“you’re just like him, you know that?” you murmured

he beamed

Zayne raised a brow “and here I thought you’d say he looked like you”

“oh, he does,” you said, grinning “but everything else? that’s all you”

Zayne exhaled, closing his book

he reached over, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear

“then I suppose we’re both lucky” he murmured

you smiled, leaning into his touch

your son yawned, curling against Zayne’s side

Zayne sighed, lifting him effortlessly “time for bed”

“nooo” the boy whined, already half-asleep

you laughed “no arguing, young man.”

Zayne smirked “she’s right. come on”

he carried him to his room, tucking him in, brushing a hand over his hair

“goodnight, little one” he whispered

“goodnight, dada” he murmured sleepily

Zayne pressed a kiss to his forehead before stepping back

he turned to you, wrapping an arm around your waist

“now,” he murmured, voice low “shall I put you to bed too?”

you smirked “you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

he chuckled, pressing a slow kiss to your lips

“always.”

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antianakin · 3 days ago

Text

Yeah, I think I was focusing more on the worldbuilding aspect of it in this post than the narrative/emotional/character development aspect of it, but I feel like it got discussed in other reblogs back when I first posted this.

I think that that's likely an intended reading, that Anakin WANTED her lightsabers to match his (and Obi-Wan's) in a way that would be immediately obvious. They're meant to represent their relationship and the connection between the two of them, and THAT'S why I think she got rid of them at the end. Practically, she leaves them behind in order to make it look like she died on the moon (although the very obvious grave sites for all the clones is a pretty massive indicator that SOMEONE survived), but symbolically I think it's meant to show that she has to leave that part of herself behind, the optional future represented in those lightsabers. Anankin wants her to come back to the Jedi, wants her to come back to HIM, and that's what the lightsabers are. She says it out loud later to Yoda, that she's not ready YET to come back, but her acceptance of the lightsabers from Anakin tells him something similar nonverbally, too. But after Order 66, that option is gone. So by leaving behind the saber, she is leaving behind the option to be a Jedi again, too.

Setting the worldbuilding aside for a second, it's still pushy. Because Anakin is sending her a very specific message by giving them to her, he's trying to convince her down a specific path, forcing her to either reject the very useful weapons or accept them and everything they represent along with them.

But bringing the worldbuilding back in, it can easily go from pushy to INVASIVE and offensive. In The Gathering, we see those kids have to go through REALLY personal trials in order to acquire that crystal. We see something similar happen with Ezra in Rebels and Cal in Jedi: Fallen Order, as well. Acquiring a crystal is intensely personal to the Jedi. They can obviously pick up other lightsabers and use them just fine, we see Anakin and Obi-Wan do this in AOTC and we see Obi-Wan do it in TCW. So it's not IMPOSSIBLE that there are spare kyber crystals lying around the Jedi temple that Anakin was able to go grab and utilize for his own purposes. But it means removing the crystals that Ahsoka had PERSONALLY EARNED for herself and replacing them with random ones just to make them look like his, without ever consulting her about it. What did he do with the original green/yellow crystals? Are they now down in the Jedi storage, or did he keep them? He doesn't offer them to her at all, just in case she doesn't like what he's done. She has NO OPTION but to accept them as is and accept the loss of the original crystals. And that feels kind-of invasive and offensive to me. Yes, Ahsoka left the lightsabers behind, with the crystals in them, but still. Why would Ahsoka PREFER to have new random crystals from storage instead of the ones she'd earned herself?

Having spare parts, including crystals, in case Jedi need them on a short term basis and can't get to Ilum, is one thing. But replacing someone else's crystals in their lightsabers with random ones just to make them suit someone else's aesthetic purposes and send a deliberate message feels... So Wrong. In so many ways.

Like I mentioned in my original post, you could've gotten a VERY similar emotional gesture by just having him give her back her ORIGINAL lightsabers. It implies that he just carries them around with him everywhere, either as a reminder of her, or in the hopes that he might bump into her and be able to return them, or both. Maybe he can tell her that he's been continuing to maintain it and keep it clean and in good working order. And it keeps the same symbolism of wanting Ahsoka to return to the Jedi and to him, it's a symbol of their prior relationship, a life Ahsoka had chosen to give up but could still return to if she chose to, and then ultimately has to COMPLETELY leave behind later. It would've done all the same things but without the weird creepy aspect of how Anakin changed the color, and honestly I think it just works better.

Anakin changing the color of Ahsoka's lightsabers is such a weird writing choice to make because it honestly makes zero sense with everything we've been shown or told up until then about how lightsabers work.

In the Gathering arc, we see all of the kids pick up what appear to be pretty similarly colored white crystals, but they don't all end up with the same color lightsaber. We hear them discuss the importance of choosing the design of the hilt to suit them, but never once hear them discuss any importance to choosing the COLOR of the saber. There's never any indication that the Jedi can choose the color of their saber, it's effectively chosen for them when they're led to a crystal to begin with.

The only other times we know someone can change the color of a crystal is bleeding and purifying which requires a lot of effort and appears to result only in red or white blades.

So for Anakin to have changed the color of Ahsoka's sabers from green/yellow to blue, either we need to completely discount that worldbuilding and assume that the hilt provides the color somehow and can be engineered differently, or Anakin somehow found two new crystals that he was able to confirm were blue and replaced her crystals with the new ones.

The option was there to just have Anakin have adjusted the design of hilt if they wanted to have Anakin do something to her lightsabers that was invasively sweet in a typically Anakin sort of way, to make them match his and Obi-Wan's more or something. Or if they wanted it to be genuinely sweet, he could've just given her back the sabers normally. And instead, they just... threw out everything we ever knew about the lightsabers just to give Ahsoka sabers that they were going to have her throw away in 3 episodes anyway and never get back. I don't really see the point of it when the lightsabers have no emotional impact upon anything.

#ahsoka #anakin #lightsabers

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itsaintmebabe · 2 days ago

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crawling back to you

summary: joel and the reader (sarah’s mother) are reunited twenty years after the outbreak

pairing: joel miller x f!nurse!reader

notes: i think joel just needs a big hug tbh, let me know if you guys like it! i would love to take any requests you have too! <3

September 26, 2003 – Austin, Texas

It was Joel’s birthday, and everything felt like it was falling into place.

The morning sun was already peeking through the kitchen windows, casting a soft golden glow over the room. You had spent the last half hour preparing breakfast, just the way Joel liked it—scrambled eggs with hot sauce, crispy sausage, toast. Simple, but it was the little things that made these rare moments together count.

Sarah was in her usual spot, helping you in the kitchen, as she always did. She had a way of making everything feel more alive, even in the world they were living in. The world was getting darker by the day, but mornings like this? You still had them.

You glanced at the clock—8:15 a.m. You had been looking forward to this all week. The three of you together, just for a bit, before the chaos of the day pulled everyone in different directions.

Then the phone rang.

You wiped your hands on your apron as you picked it up. The hospital.

"Hi, y/n. We need you in the ER right away. We’re short-staffed, and things are getting worse by the minute. Can you come in?”

You froze. You weren’t supposed to be on shift today. It was Joel’s birthday, for God’s sake. But you knew the drill. The hospitals were always desperate for extra hands. And you knew, deep down, you couldn’t ignore the call.

You glanced at Joel, who had been staring at the phone, his face tightening. He didn't have to say anything. You could already tell he was disappointed. He had been holding onto the hope that today would be a rare day when he had you to himself.

“I’ll be there in twenty,” you said quietly, already grabbing your jacket.

Joel stood, his brows furrowed. He wanted to argue, but he didn’t. He understood. The world was on the edge of collapse, and people needed help. But there was a pang of guilt in his eyes that made you hesitate for a moment.

Sarah looked up from her seat, her voice quieter than usual. “Mom, you’ll be back in time for dinner, right? We’ll have your surprise ready.”

You forced a smile. “Of course. I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

It was a lie. You didn’t know if you’d be back. You never knew anymore.

Joel kissed your forehead softly before you stepped out the door, his words lingering in the air, “Be careful.”

────୨ৎ────

September 26, 2003 – Austin Memorial Hospital

The moment you arrived at the hospital, you knew something was terribly wrong.

The usual hustle of the ER had been replaced by chaos. The hallways were full of people—patients with high fevers, delirious, some bleeding from strange bites. The air was thick with tension. You rushed through the sliding doors into the ER, your medical instincts kicking in, but the sight that greeted you was worse than anything you had ever prepared for.

The nurses were running back and forth, some of them already covered in blood. Doctors were trying to stabilize patients who were turning on them, bodies jerking, eyes wild with a hunger you couldn’t understand.

A nurse caught your eye as you ran to the supply closet. “We need help in trauma, now!” She was breathless, and her hands were shaking as she handed you gloves.

There was no time for questions. You just followed orders, working quickly, the hum of panic filling the air around you.

Then it happened. The first patient who wasn’t just sick, but something else. She stopped breathing, and the next thing you knew, she was attacking the staff, biting, clawing, her body contorting in ways that were unnatural.

“Shit,” one of the doctors muttered, backing away in horror.

You stepped back, horrified as the woman lunged at the next nurse, tearing into them like a feral animal. The sound of flesh tearing, the cries for help, it all became a blur.

“Get to the exit!” someone shouted, but it was too late. The chaos had already spread. The infected were everywhere. No one knew how to stop them.

You tried to help the injured, trying to keep everyone calm, but the situation spiraled out of control faster than anyone could comprehend. Within hours, the hospital was in ruins, and you found yourself running—escaping through hallways that once offered safety but now felt like a death sentence.

Your radio buzzed, a crackling voice telling everyone to evacuate immediately. You grabbed your medical bag, ready to run, but it felt like you were running through a nightmare.

The streets were no better. The air was thick with sirens, people screaming, and the distant sound of gunfire. You didn’t know where to go. You didn’t know if you’d ever see Joel or Sarah again.

────୨ৎ────

Twenty Years Later – Jackson, Wyoming

Joel didn’t believe in ghosts.

But when he saw you standing there, alive and breathing after all these years, he was forced to reconsider.

It was the same feeling he got when the world fell apart—the sudden rush of disbelief. His heart was beating so fast, he could hear it pounding in his ears. He had seen people he loved die. He had buried them. And you? He had buried you in his mind a long time ago, convinced you were gone.

And now, standing there in front of him, you were real.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. He felt like the floor was falling away beneath him.

"Joel," your voice was cracked, full of a pain that matched his own.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. It was the kind of silence that spoke volumes—years of grief and longing, each moment stretching far beyond the seconds between you now.

He tried to move, tried to speak, but all he could do was stare, wide-eyed and shaking. “How... How are you—alive?”

You took a step closer, your hand reaching for him, but he recoiled instinctively. Not because he didn’t want you near, but because the years of loss, of uncertainty, had hardened him. He didn’t trust the reality of what was happening.

“I was in Austin. The outbreak... the hospitals were chaos.” You trailed off, struggling to hold back tears. “I tried to find you, Joel. I looked for you. I thought I was the only one left. I thought I... I lost you both.”

Joel closed his eyes, trying to steady himself. His voice was tight, like a pressure was building in his chest. “You’re here now. That’s... that’s all that matters.”

“No,” you said, shaking your head, your voice almost a whisper, “It’s not. I thought about you every single day. I don’t know how I survived it. But I kept thinking about you, thinking about Sarah, about what we were going to do... if I ever made it out.” Your voice trembled, the weight of the years pressing on you.

Joel took a long, shuddering breath, closing the space between you and pulling you into a tight hug. The emotion, the relief, the grief—it all hit him at once. His arms tightened around you like he was afraid you’d disappear again.

“I should’ve... I should’ve come for you. I should’ve found you,” he whispered against your hair, guilt flooding his veins. “I didn’t know, I thought you were—”

“You couldn’t have known. I know that, Joel.” You pulled back slightly, your hands resting on his chest, your eyes full of sorrow but also something else—something like understanding. “You didn’t stop thinking about me, did you?”

“No. I never did.”

There was no more space between you now, no more distance, just the sound of your breaths, both of you trying to breathe in the reality of it. Joel had been so sure he was alone, that he had lost everything. But here you were. Alive.

“I never stopped thinking about you, either,” you whispered, a tear slipping down your cheek.

Joel pressed his forehead to yours, the grief in his eyes just as raw as your own. For a moment, it was just you and him, the world outside crashing in on itself, but it didn’t matter. Not now.

You had found each other. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough.

The years had shaped both of you, molded you into something new, but the pain didn’t go away. There was still so much lost, so much to mourn. But for now, you were together. And in a world like this one, that was a victory all on its own.

#joel miller fluff #joel miller fic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller angst #joel miller x reader #joel miller #the last of us #pedro pascal angst #pedro pascal fluff #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #fanfiction #fluff #fanfic #angst #x reader

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v-eee · 3 days ago

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── jungkook x you

scenario: you and Jungkook used to be best friend until new female staff came into his workplace, Jieun. He has introduced you to her. Jungkook starts getting busy with his work and often cancel the usual food hunting night with you because he needs to work overtime with Jieun. You know Jieun doesn't like you because she has come to your cafe a few times and told you to stop texting Jungkook during his work hour. when you told him about that, he didn't believe you. Starting that day your friendship is not like it used to be.

(vii)

After the ball, nothing really changed... or at least, that’s what Jungkook tried to tell himself.

You were still you— kind, warm, always smiling.

But something felt different.

For one, your usual food-hunting nights weren’t the same anymore. What used to be just the two of you had somehow turned into a group activity. Every time he thought he’d finally get you alone to catch up, you’d casually invite someone else.

'The more, the merrier!' — you’d say with a bright grin whenever he gave you a look.

Jungkook would just laugh it off, pretending it didn’t bother him. But deep down, he missed how it used to be—just you and him, fighting over the last bite of dessert, complaining about overpriced ramen, or making fun of his horrible spice tolerance.

Then, there was your sudden busy schedule.

"You’re going where this time?" he asked one evening as you both walked out of the café.

"Another city," you said, stretching your arms. "We’re opening more branches, so I’ll be traveling a lot. Gotta make sure everything runs smoothly."

Jungkook let out an exaggerated sigh. "Wow. Look at you, all important and busy. Should I start making an appointment just to see you now?"

You giggled. “"Maybe you should."

He clutched his chest dramatically. "Unbelievable. My own best friend, ditching me for work."

You raised an eyebrow at him. “Well, someone forgot how he ditched me for work before."

Jungkook froze for a second before clearing his throat. "Oof. That was—uh"

You just smiled, shaking your head. "I'm kidding...relax."

He groaned, ruffling his hair. "Okay, okay. I get it. I sucked. But I miss you, you know?"

You gave him a small smile but didn’t say anything. Instead, you glanced at your phone. "Anyway, I gotta go. Early morning tomorrow."

And just like that, the conversation ended as you wave him goodbyr and run to the train station.

After 3 days, Jungkook sat in his apartment, staring at his phone. No messages from you. No random texts about the new café. No updates on your trip. Just… silence.

At first, he told himself it was fine. You were just busy. But as the days passed, an uncomfortable feeling settled in his chest.

He missed you. A lot.

More than he expected.

Sure, you were always around before, and he knows he just took it for granted.

But now? Now, the idea of you not being there anymore—of you going somewhere without him—scared him in a way he didn’t quite understand.

For the first time, he wondered… Had he already lost you without realizing it?

Jungkook made up his mind and took a three-hour drive to see you in the other city.

When you spotted him standing at the café entrance, your eyes widened in surprise. "Jungkook? What are you doing here?"

He flashed a casual grin. "Just felt like dropping by." Then, before you could question him further, he added, "Don’t mind me. Go do your thing."

Still confused, you watched as he strolled over to the counter, ordered an iced latte, and settled into a corner seat.

From time to time, you could feel his gaze on you, quietly observing. But the moment you caught him staring, he quickly looked away, pretending to be completely focused on his ipad—though you were pretty sure the screen wasn’t even on.

You couldn’t help but wonder—did Jun really drive all this way just to watch you work? But with the café being busy, you didn’t have time to dwell on it.

Hours passed as you moved around, helping customers and managing orders. At some point, you glanced over to his table—only to find it empty. Jun was gone.

Someone else had already taken his seat.

A small pang of disappointment settled in your chest. He didn’t even say goodbye.

#jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #fanfic #jungkook scenario #scenario

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apoemaday · 3 days ago

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Meditation Denying Everything

by Katie Peterson

Because it is a pearly evening I am sitting in the window reading a book I have read before. Branches emphasize their heft and sway over their shadows. Some kind of extra firmament, an ear over the earth's ear, extra, as language is to prayer. Narratives of elsewhere: in the eye inside my eye that vision makes when you tell it to when you shut your eyes so hard they hurt you get more vista and less twist of road, and then you're looking at a valley you named yourself and irrigated yourself, full of bitterroot, magnolia in the clefts of rock, sage, at last a harvest, a desert that belongs to you —

The trick to renunciation is starting now. The secret of detachment is having already given up, a transcript of speech whose cadences are lost, the human need for a body to fill in all your body's deficiencies, those clefts and dents already given up, the narrative of a life completely altered in the retrospect that knowledge brings and so discredited the point of memory utterly lost. That piece of land has always been suitable for a house. That nest has never been ready for eight baby birds who, top-heavy, frightened their own branch and home and scared themselves completely and remarkably away.

Do you hear that? It's the wind negotiating the spine of one leaf it cannot decide whether to raise a fragment of an inch.

Duncan writes as a reader struggles with a strong sentence, I struggle at certain unmistakable times with what's furtive and most right. When people marry they finish their names. I am still listening for mine to begin. My spine wants a bicycle to order its work, a red bicycle, a hill into a heart of a city that holds something I want.

The pattern of the air around that leaf is like someone tracing my ribcage with his index finger and then walking away. Who can blame us for wanting other worlds, but shall we take them, or let them come to us? Is the spirit just an ear more like a mouth that bites the air and turns it into blood?

A voice in the next room goes to sleep. Sleep moves in the branches of the oak become a rootless mass unsung by skeleton or name or height. My friend who says she does not believe in Paradise believes in rest: I believe that, or more likely I like to think of her, the way she held my name in her small mouth, as she held her own name. I like to think of anyone who on a night like this would reach towards my ribcage and trace it delicately and walk away.

#poetry #katie peterson #meditation denying everything

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softestqueeen · 3 days ago

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Hi! I was reading through 500 celebration prompts, first of all: congratulations 🥳🎊🎉you deserve it ! I dont know how comfortable you are with writing post prision spencer, but he is the only one I can think of when I read prompts 2 "It won't be easy you know... trying to love me." and 6 "I- I don't know who I am anymore. I'm scared." . Maybe like before he got arrested they were starting something and he feels that reader is going to give up on him bc of what he did on the inside, and it’s hurt/comfort, you could totally come up with something better. Feel free to ignore 🤍✨

a/n: thank you sm for your request! so, fun fact i stopped watching cm after hotch left (s12) because 1) obv hotch left and 2) i knew my bbg was going to go through it with his mom and prison and stuff and if i don't see it, it doesnt happen. periodt. but, i'm still a sucker for hurt/comfort, so here you go, enjoy <3 warnings: very incorrect mention of events during the prison arc (your girl has no idea), hurt/comfort, mention of prison, mention of murder pairing: post prison!spencer reid x gn!reader I 1175 words special prompts I special masterlist

You and Spencer had only moved in together a few weeks before everything went downhill. Seeing your boyfriend in court, seeing the tears in his eyes once it was clear he had to go to jail almost broke you. Without the suppoert of the team - who suppoerted you when Spencer couldn't and were always there for you - you don't think you would have been able to make it.

But, finally, the BAU found a way to prove his innocence and got him out of that shithole. You were aching to see him, especially because he didn't put you on the visitors list. When you first heard that, you couldn't belive it. Why didn't he wanna see you? But after Garcia visited him and came back with a letter for you from Spencer, where he explained how he didn't want you to see him like this, you somewhat understood him.

It still hurt, but of course you respected his desicion.

So, when he came out about a week ago, you were overjoyed. You almost couldn't believe that you'd get to hold him in you arms again.

Of course you knew he wouldn't be the same man as before after these months in jail, but a small part of you still hoped that you'd get back to normal quite fast. Oh, how wrong you were.

When Spencer first came through the door - Penelope came to pick him up, he didn't want you anywhere near that prison - he practically fell into your amrs and remained like that for what felt like hours. Still, once he pulled away it felt too soon. He was distant, but not unusually so, more like when he had been on a tough case and just needed some space. So, you gave him what he needed.

After your time together you learnt how to read him quite well and with every shy smile he gave you once he realised you were profiling him, you felt like you got a little bit of your Spencer back.

But, you soon realised that he wanted a lot more space than usual. Even when his body language practically screamed for you to be close to him or at least be in the same room, he still kindly asked you fro space. Which was fine, until it wasn't.

You took a week off work to help him get settled in again and today was your first day back at work. Everything was fine and Spencer even hugged you goodbye before you left. You felt so special, as he rarely seeked out any touch these days. Nights that would have been spent cuddled together were now spent on opposite sides with Spencer as far away from you as humanly possible on the bed.

Checking in with him at lunchtime, he told you he had ordered in some food and was now reading some russian book you've never heard of.

You left work the moment the clock hit 6pm and drove home as fast as you could with all the traffic. Opening the door, you take off your shoes and place your keys on the designated hook.

Moving further into the apartment, you realise something is off. You don't see Spencer. Usually when he reads he sits in his favourite chair by the window, the old thing already indented from where he always sits. But he was nowhere to be soon.

"Spence, I'm home," you call out, but are only met with silence. Before you could worry too much, you opened the bedroom door and the sight that awaited you broke your heart.

There was Spencer, you sweet and amazing boyfriend, lying under the covers with tears running down his face. He obviously hasn't registered that you were home, hi hands pulling his legs even tighter against his torso.

You've never seen someone this tall seem so small.

Taking a step forward, you reach out your hand to him, not quite touching him yet.

"Spencer... what's wrong? Please, talk to me?" Once he realised you were there he almost jumped out of his skin in the way he jerked back. Eyes wide he quickly searched for the quickest route out of this situation, but he was quick to realise that he had to talk to you.

He let out a heavy sigh, before scooting back and leaning against the headboard, giving you the space to sit down on the edge of the bed, which he previosuly occupied.

Taking a deep breath he started to talk. "Uhm- uh- as you've probably realised, the other people in prison weren't the nicest to me and I- uhm-," Spencer was evidently having problems with finding the right words, but you were quick to assure him to take his time.

"So, I'll just say I had a hard time, I don't want you to know what they did to me, what I had to do to them. And I- I just don't really know how to act anymore, you know? I'm not- I'm not the same person that I was before prison and that uh- scares me a bit, I guess. I- I don't know who I am anymore. I'm scared."

If your heart could even break any more, it just did. Knowing how insecure Spencer had felt previously and how he had gained so much confidence since you've gotten together. To see this confidence shattered pained you so much.

"Oh, Spencer. I can't even imagine what you have gone through, but I'm so proud of you, you know?" at that he perked up, his previously downcast eyes now meeting yours, "I am proud of you. You did it, it's over and your're here now. You're safe you know and I'm so glad you're back. I love you so much Spencer and I will help you in any way I can. But please, you need to talk to me. I worry about you, because I deeply love you and I only want the best for you."

You could see tears glistening in his eyes again.

"It won't be easy you know... trying to love me."

"Spence, I don't have to try to love you, because I already do. I love you unconditionally, no matter how hard times may get, I'll always be there for you, okay? Loving you is not a task or a burden, but it's a choice. And everyday I wake up and I chose you," with your last word your finger pokes his chest and Spencer finally realsies that this is real.

He is not in prison anymore, he is free. He has you, the love of his life who also loves him back.

Spencer can't take it anymore, he throws himself into your arms and he lets the tears fall freely, soaking your shirt. You don't mind and you also know that he knows that.

This is not over and it will take a while for everything to get back to normal - or whatever normal will be in the future - but now you both knew that it was going to be alright.

the requests for this event ARE CLOSED! thank you to everybody who requested something, I'm now getting to the last ones.

a/n: i hope you liked this, if so please leave some notes, likes, reblogs and comments! feedback is very appreciated!

please also consider supporting my ao3: @ softestqueeen

regular requests open! (now also for the x files)

taglist: @silvermagnolias@milywatermelon@bigbananaa @mmmmokdok

#x reader #reader insert #ao3 #love #fluff #no y/n #criminal minds #hurt/comfort #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid angst #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #prison arc #500 follower event #softestqueeen fic

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antipersonhood · 2 days ago

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Full disclosure, I am a prison abolitionist (yay abolitionists), so underlying my perspective on the debate is complete skepticism that this debate should even exist, because I don't think our punitive/retributive/carceral justice system should exist. But that's a whole other can of worms. You have faith in a system that I simply don't. For the sake of this debate, I will grant the premise (that I don't agree with) that our criminal justice system is legitimate.

I honestly don't think there should always and forevermore be blanket immunity for parents who self-induce abortion. I think over time, our standards for justice will have to change because our culture will change too; without the indoctrination and conditioning of the dominant pro-abortion culture, abortion procurers/inducers certainly will have more culpability.

But I do think that right now, trying to investigate all dubious pregnancy losses as possible murders in order to penalize a tiny minority of people is unreasonable. This will disproportionately affect people struggling with addiction, who deserve help and healthcare, not a murder charge for a tragedy they never intended.

It's also ineffective — I wrote about that recently in this post — which I think renders the debate mostly moot. Why are we debating a point that doesn't even make sense in the process of criminal evidentiary law? Idk, but here I am arguing it, so I also want to include this excerpt from this article by Equal Rights Institute:

"This ignores the very real cost of being charged with something and put into the criminal justice system, even if you’re innocent. Our premise is that the vast majority of women lack criminal culpability, so this view suggests charging a lot of women who would be found not guilty in order to prosecute a few who would be found guilty.

Let’s walk through what would happen to the woman who lacks culpability in this situation. She is charged with a crime, handcuffed, and taken to the county jail in a police car, where she’ll be offered a public defender (hopefully she has her own attorney). Best-case scenario, she’s released on her own recognizance (otherwise she has to pay bail, likely involving paying money to a bondsman that she’ll never get back, for the privilege of not awaiting trial in jail). Her name and charge are published in the local police report, earning public shame. She is required to appear at the courthouse for pre-trial hearings at times selected by the judge; so much the worse for her if it’s during her work day and she doesn’t have paid time off. Maybe she gets lucky and the charge is dismissed pre-trial; otherwise, after a large delay, she’ll get to sit in a courtroom and stand trial over the course of one or more days and hope that the justice system gives the right answer in her case (it doesn’t always, you know).

So, what’s the point of putting the 80-plus percent of women who would be charged through that ordeal, just to sift through them to find the few for whom you could establish culpability in a court of law? Is that an acceptable cost to have the feeling of ideological purity? We don’t trot innocent people through the justice system just to find the one person with criminal culpability.

Aside from that, the flood of unnecessary cases would put a strain on the criminal justice system, which we already don’t necessarily trust to handle cases well. Furthermore, women who are pressured or coerced into an abortion would now need to testify to try to establish that as a legal defense from prosecution. This will lead to “he said, she said” scenarios in which the prosecutor will trot out a manipulative family member or abusive boyfriend in the room to deny everything, and it will often require the woman to testify in front of the person who already exercised enough power over her to coerce her in the first place."

So look, your perspective isn't entirely unwarranted or irrational. You're trying to be consistent and to get justice for murder victims, I get that. But I do think it ultimately that prosecuting people for procuring/inducing abortion will cause more harm and injustice than the amount of justice it will secure is worth. Injustice for many is not justice for few.

I'm a bisexual cis woman, and the very reason I began speaking out against abortion was because I saw how fellow women, my friends that I love, were being lied to about and harmed by abortion. I have two extensive posts, one on how being pro-life is feminist, and one on how abortion exploits women. I love women, literally, and that's why I could no longer remain silent on this issue. Women deserve better than to be the mothers of murdered children. I dream of a world beyond violence, and I have radical hope that it is possible.

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ponderingmoonlight · 6 hours ago

Text

jjk men cheering you up

Pairings: gojo x fem!reader; geto x fem!reader; choso x fem!reader; sukuna x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,3k

Warnings: this is my first fic in months so I hope you enjoy. Will post more from now on🫶

Gojo Satoru

Gojo knows something is off the moment he sees you. Your usual spark is dimmer, and even though you try to play it off, with that stern expression and eyes hidden behind sunglasses, he isn’t buying it.

So, naturally, he decides to fix it the best way he knows how - by being an absolute menace.

“Helloooo, earth to my favorite person!”

He dramatically waves a hand in front of your face, leaning in way too close for your liking. Honestly, this is the last thing you need today after getting shat on by literally everyone crossing your path. Why does everything have to go wrong. And more specifically, why are you always involved?

His sunglasses are perched on his head, letting those ridiculous blue eyes stare right through your soul.

You sigh.

“Gojo-”

“Bzzzt! Wrong answer. It’s Satoru, your beloved, devastatingly handsome best friend-slash-mentor-slash-personal-jester-slash-lover? I don’t know about that last part, we didn’t get specific on that.”

He pokes your cheek, grinning.

“Now tell me what’s wrong, or I’m gonna start listing my best qualities. Out loud. In public.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the small smile forming. How does he do this? It’s like all the frustration leaves you bit by bit the second this jerk starts talking. What were you even mad about in the first place? He gasps.

“Was that a smile?! Oh, I knew you couldn’t resist me.”

Before you can protest, he grabs your wrist and teleports you to a café downtown. The next thing you know, he’s ordering every single dessert on the menu, grinning like a proud child while you stare at him like an idiot.

“Nothing a little sugar can’t fix,” he comments, plopping down across from you.

“And if it doesn’t work, don’t worry - I’ll just have to be even more annoying until you laugh for real. Or we can take this to my bed-”

“Can you just stop?”, you interrupt him immediately, cheeks turning bright pink.

You shake your head, but as he starts dramatically fake-crying about his "invisible pain," you find yourself laughing anyway.

What a jerk. And yet, what a blessing.

Geto Suguru

Geto doesn’t say anything when he notices your exhaustion. Sure the elders took out their anger and frustration on you again and sent you through the country hunting day and night for curses. You don’t deserve to go through this. Not you, one of the kindest people he knows. He simply sits beside you, offering his presence instead of demanding explanations while all you’re able to do is staring in the distance.

All that horror, that restless night…When is this going to end? When will you have a life again?

After a while, he quietly lifts up his voice.

“Want to talk about it?”

You shake your head, and he doesn’t push. Suguru never does. Instead, he reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear while gently allowing his arm to rest over your exhausted shoulders. It’s like he’s your savior, your ambrosia after every stressful mission.

“Alright,” he says.

“Then how about a walk? Fresh air might help.”

You agree, and soon you’re strolling through a quiet park, the late afternoon sun casting a warm glow. Geto is calm, steady - he doesn’t try to force conversation, just lets the silence sit comfortably between you both while his hand gently holds onto yours.

When you sigh, he finally speaks.

“You don’t have to carry everything alone, you know.”

His voice is soft, understanding, his touch so reassuring that you feel like bursting out in tears any moment.

“I’ll listen whenever you’re ready.”

The sincerity in his eyes almost undoes you, but you manage a nod. Geto doesn’t need you to thank him. He simply reaches out, squeezing your shoulder gently before letting go.

“Wait”, you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

“What is it, (y/n)?”

“Can you…can you maybe just…hold me?”, you mutter.

Suddenly you feel out of place. What are you even doing here next to that guy all your friends crush over? Did you really just ask him to hug you?

“I mean I-“

“I’d honestly love to”, he replies before you’re able to explain yourself.

The next second, you find yourself devoured between his arms, lost in his immaterial touch, his arms light as a feather and yet so demanding against your skin that you feel whole again.

For the first time in months, you find yourself relaxing. Not in a bath, not in a sauna, but in the arms of a man you learned to love more than any obstacle could ever hurt you.

Choso

Choso notices the way you drag your feet, the way your shoulders slump. His instincts scream at him to fix it, but he isn’t sure how. To be honest, he still isn’t good at reading human emotions. Yuji told him a few things here and there, but what if you feel uncomfortable by him talking to you? What if you get mad, scream at him? His chest tightens the way he hates it most.

But he has to do something. There’s no way he’ll allow you to potentially feel bad.

So he does the only thing he knows - he stays close.

You’re curled up on the couch when he silently walks over, placing a blanket over your shoulders. When you glance up at him, he merely nods, sitting down beside you. He doesn’t say anything, but his presence is solid, grounding.

To be honest, you’re on the brink of crying. It feels like the whole world is against you with everyone screaming, lying and ditching on you. When will this finally stop? Will you ever be happy again? This life just feels like a nightmare you can’t wake up from, I grave you cannot escape.

After a moment, he shifts.

“You should rest,” he murmurs.

“I’ll stay here.”

There’s something so simple, so unwavering about his words that the tightness in your chest loosens just a little. You lean against him without thinking, and when he doesn’t move away, you let yourself relax.

He smells surprisingly good for the old man he is, his body soft and yet hard against your touch. Without thinking twice, you lower you head to his chest and start screaming, crying, bawling your eyes out.

“You don’t have to hide from me”, he simply comments, his hand caressing your hair and making sure it doesn’t stick to your soaked face.

“I’ll always be here. And I’ll kill everyone who makes you feel this way.”

You can’t help but chuckle while wiping your nose in the most unladylike manner.

“You being here is more than enough.”

Sukuna

Sukuna scoffs when he sees you sulking, immediately springing up from his throne.

“Tch. What’s with that pathetic face?”

You glare at him. Honestly, he’s the last thing you need right now. Not when your life is falling apart already, not when you have 99 problems to deal with – him not included.

“Thanks, asshole. That really helps.”

He rolls his eyes, crossing his arms.

“What, you expect me to coddle you? Please.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. No, you can’t take this right now. This isn’t the time for Sukuna’s shit talk.

“Then leave me alone.”

But he doesn’t. Oh, he never does.

Instead, he clicks his tongue and suddenly pulls you into his lap, making you yelp. His clawed hand rests lazily against your head, almost like… like he’s patting you?

“You’re annoying when you mope,” he grumbles, but his fingers brush against your scalp in slow, careful strokes.

“So stop it already.”

You blink, stunned.

“Are you…are you comforting me?”

Sukuna clicks his tongue.

“Shut up before I change my mind.”

You can’t help it. You laugh despite feeling like shit, and his scowl deepens. But he doesn’t shove you away, doesn’t stop his absentminded gestures of comfort.

Maybe he won’t say it outright, but you get the message.

Even the King of Curses doesn’t like seeing you sad.

Tags:

@arehzhera @ploylulla @tzubaki @beatrexworld @kenstarsworld

@hellkaiserinphoenix @lauv4chuuya @sindela @kayleegomez @sunshine7queen

@magalimachete @gatitam @idontknow1123 @creative1writings @sanicsmut

@mynahx3 @sad-darksoul @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix @chuyasthighs0

@ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @froufrousnowman @tomiokathedepresso @gojosrealwife

@coffeeluvr96 @mahi-tamashi @weebotaku21 @chaoticwinnercupcake @lees-chaotic-brain

@risuola @sugurulefttesticle @wordskeeper @baku2345 @polarbvnny

@ruixrei @bam-bam-bam-bame-blog @lavenderdrxp @localhehecat @alicerhr

@sugu-love @belovedvamp @wifenanami @chilichopsticks @dlwlrmas-world

@oikawarz @darkstarlight82 @satoreo @kentocalls @cheesemachine44

@ryva @kenjakusconcubine @baku2345 @komelrebi-san @deezy12299

@okay-it-is-ivy @paridoliaaa @cupcaketeddybehr

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guilhem-png · 6 hours ago

Note

do you have any other opinions about the voices? (like that one about which is the most useful)

Sure! I've spent a long time thinking about them, it's one of the most fascinating things about Slay the Princess in my opinion. What I like is finding out what's unique about them (aside from their personality).

Why is it that Smitten is the only one who can escape your body and manipulate the construct? Because ANYTHING is possible in the construct (so long as you believe it's possible), and love gives Smitten a hefty power boost whenever he needs one. But when you think about it, even if the others realized they could do that, they probably wouldn't attempt it. Only Smitten would think of sacrificing himself for you and the Princess' happiness, because in his mind, love justifies all the sacrifices. Smitten's power is a reflection of what he is: endlessly kind, but strongly misguided.

Why is it that Cheated is the only one who can teleport? Well, because he's so frustrated and impatient that his wish literally comes true, and boom, suddenly you're in the cabin. But it's funny how he doesn't connect the dots in a meaningful way. He never uses this power again because he's simply too blinded by his objective. He never takes a moment to breathe, stop and reevaluate. He drives you and everyone along for the ride, not taking the time to think about what happens when it's all over. His power is a reflection of his own shortcomings: it's a shortcut that doesn't take you anywhere.

Why is it that only Stubborn can revive you? Because all that matters to him is battle. Stubborn believes that he's fine, and so you can get up and keep fighting. As much as I find him annoying, Stubborn is a fascinating specimen. I believe many (if not all) of the voices have a tiny part of their mind that subconsciously remembers how much they love the Princess. And so, even those who follow the Narrator's orders end up twisting them in a way that voids the stated goal. Case in point, Stubborn doesn't want to beat the Princess. He wants to fight her, again and again, in an endless cycle of victory and defeat. He doesn't want to imagine a world without her.

The construct works on belief, and what the voices make of that belief reveals a lot about their strengths and weaknesses. In Chapter II - The Nightmare, Paranoid is stuck in his own head. He uses the power of belief to keep you alive, but only just barely, failing to realize that he's also the one killing you, simply by believing that the Princess is capable of that. But in other chapters, Paranoid is usually less scared. The Nightmare is essentially his origin story, but in others, his critical mind proves to be extremely useful. Out of all the voices, he's one of the closest to figure out the truth behind the construct. What he seeks is serenity, something that his own nature prevents him from ever obtaining, but it renders him able to conjure a gigantic sword to slice the Apotheosis in half. Or to gather enough willpower to hurl the Wraith into a bottomless pit. Not a bad trade.

Meanwhile, you have a very similar mind that produces very different results: Skeptic. On paper, Skeptic should have the exact same powers as Paranoid, for he too pokes at the edges of the construct, doubting everything he sees. But Skeptic is the wrong kind of mind for that. He's too pragmatic. If Paranoid is there to prompt him, then he can "wake up" temporarily and realize his own power (think of how he and Paranoid free themselves by cutting their chains in The Cage). But outside of that, he's just too limited. He gives the construct too much importance. His rationality would do wonders elsewhere, but his limited imagination binds him to a prison of his own making.

Hunted is certainly one of the more interesting cases. He believes that he's prey, but unlike Broken, he's capable of using his perceived weakness as a kind of power. "If I'm prey, then it means I have to be faster, more perceptive". His mistake is to limit himself to being prey. His advice allows you to avoid being swallowed by the Beast, yes, but you can never beat her. Hunted was able to make lemonade out of the lemons life threw at him, but he was never able to escape the lemonade factory.

Broken is extremely powerful, extremely emotional, but too busy wallowing in his own suffering to notice most of the time. His desire is to be subservient, and that rarely manifests cool superpowers. Still, the Fury's torture allows him to show one ability that he seems to possess in greater quantity than everyone else: empathy. Stubborn fails to endure, because he perceives the torture as a fight that he has to win. Broken considers that he has already lost, so why resist? But while he's there, he lends an ear to the Fury's own suffering, and sees himself mirrored in her.

And then, you have the voices that simply don't make use of the construct's unique properties: Cold and Opportunist. It's fascinating to me, how little Cold uses his own power. He's extremely confident after all. He's not afraid of death, he's not afraid of killing, he's not afraid of torture. He should be the most powerful one of all. But he's not, and that's because he doesn't care enough. Cold, at all times, is driven by vague curiosity, but not much else. Where Smitten, Stubborn and Paranoid derive immense power from their strong emotions, Cold fails because he has nothing to wish for.

Opportunist meanwhile, is the complete opposite. He desires too many things at once. He's willing to side with anyone, so long as he can be "on top", but has anyone taken the time to ponder what that means? Some have argued that Opportunist is at his core, very scared, and is merely seeking some form of stability. I'm inclined to agree, and I think that's why he fails. Opportunist is too self-centered, but also too indecisive. He wants to keep all his options open. He wants to kill the Witch, befriend the Witch, side with the Narrator, side with you... "No no, I promise I'm useful, don't get rid of me!" Except, your beliefs aren't really all that strong, when your allegiances can change at the drop of a hat, are they? And so Opportunist is excluded from the "cool superpowers club", because he's simply not focusing hard enough.

Contrarian is similar. He's motivated by spite, which as the Fury brutally shows, is not a very strong kind of motivation. All he wants is to not do as he's told. He's basically playing a big game, but he doesn't really know how to get serious. And yet, that can be a power on its own. Other voices sometimes take the situation way too seriously, but Contrarian is very efficient at resisting the Apotheosis because he really hates being told what to do.

The voices are so great because they're imperfect. Each of them has the potential to be a great ally in a dire situation, and a burden in another. If you were a little voice in Slay the Princess, what kind of power would you have?

#slay the princess #stp #slay the princess spoilers #stp spoilers #voice of the skeptic #voice of the broken #voice of the contrarian #voice of the cold #voice of the smitten #voice of the hunted #voice of the opportunist #voice of the stubborn #voice of the paranoid #voice of the cheated #the long quiet #tlq #text post #I'm thinking thoughts #ask

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myboipracticallyimagines · 2 days ago

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Young - Terry Silver x Reader

Prompt: Terry Silver dating a younger woman he met as a waitress. Now she's in high society with him. Controversially young gf for real. (Reader is of age!! I imagined her as 25ish.)

(Warning: smut!! (minors dni), love-bombing, light manipulation)

It had been a slow Tuesday the first time you had served him. With your only other regular having just left, Terry was the only customer in your section. Nights like these used to be the bane of your existence at your old job - barely making enough in tips to pay for a tank of gas. Here, though, every dish was expensive enough to guarantee a decent tip. You had to split it with the kitchen, but it was often still enough to make a shift like this worth it.

Armed with the most charming smile you could muster, you approached the silver-haired man. “Good evening, I’ll be taking care of you this evening,” you began your usual spiel. With your words, he finally looked up. Once his eyes met yours, they didn’t leave. Not to look at the menu, or gaze around the room in ponderance - he looked only at you. His eyes didn’t leave yours until you walked to the kitchen to put his order in. He smiled when you returned with his wine glass. “Slow night?” he asked before pulling his first sip. He groaned softly at the taste. “That’s divine.” You smiled with pride. “Thank you. And yes, it is. Tuesdays almost always are. You’re my only customer right now, actually.” “Is that so?” He motioned to the empty seat across from him. “I’ll make it worth your while, then.”

You couldn’t fight the blush that rose to your cheeks. You hadn’t known him, then, but you knew you were attracted to him. “Thank you,” “Terry. Terry Silver,” he filled in, extending a hand to you. “Mr. Silver,” you smiled, meeting your hand to his. He gripped it softly before pulling it to his lips for a brush of a kiss. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.” “No ‘sir’ tonight. Tonight, I’m just a man having dinner with the prettiest woman in this place,” he charmed. You pursed your lips to avoid breaking into a cheesy smile. “Okay.”

You didn’t know what to ask him, everything seemed too personal for a waitress to be asking a guest. For a while you just sat there, letting his eyes wander your face, seeming to drink in every last detail. You studied him, as well. He was beautifully put together, in a way only an older man can be. You could tell that, despite his age, he was still built under his well-tailored suit. Your mind started to crawl to what was underneath before his voice pulled you back. “How long have you worked here, dear?” “About six months now. It’s been good to me, here.” “What did you do before this?” “I was still a waitress, but at a much worse place with a lot more creeps.” Terry grimaced. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that.” You shrugged. “They tipped well, sometimes, so I guess I can’t complain.”

He asked you a few more questions before you were called back to the kitchen to run his food. You let him eat in peace, running to the back to finish up your side work. A small rush came in at the end of his meal, drawing you from him in his last minutes there. He left quickly after paying and you didn’t get a chance to open his checkbook until your shift was over. Tucked neatly into the pocket was five crisp hundred dollar bills and a note on the receipt. “You shouldn’t need harassment for a good tip.”

He became a regular after that, always Tuesday evening a few hours before close. He took a corner table, and you joined him as he drank his wine. Sometimes you asked about him, but he got more enjoyment out of asking about you. In the couple months of his visits, he’d learned you have three cats, went to college for marketing, don’t like tomatoes, love the beach, are allergic to penicillin and have never broken a bone. In addition to hundreds of other facts he’d drawn out of you. The most notable that you were single. As was he. He’d also learned that you had to tip-share, so he made a great deal to ensure that your tips were just for you, when he handed them over. Making sure to leave the back of the house their own, smaller, tip.

The day before Valentine’s was always your favorite shift. It was filled with families, girl groups, lonely men, and B-string relationships. You didn’t have enough fingers to count the men you would see with one girl on the 13th and a completely new one the next day. These men weren’t above flirting with you through their wallets, and you licked it up. You even unbuttoned your shirt past the regulatory guidelines, cause fuck it. What was a write-up compared to a couple hundred bucks in tips?

It was on the 13th that Terry made his (now weekly) visit, requesting to be sat in your section, as always. “Good evening, Mr. Silver. Could I start you off with a glass of red this evening? We have a wonderful collection for the occasion.”

He chuckled deeply. “Dealer’s choice. Make it worth my time.” As you smiled and turned away, he caught your arm. “And you know I’m not Mr. Silver here. not to you.

Your smile deepened. “Of course. Terry.”

A moment later you returned with a bottle of your fanciest red and a single glass in hand. Holding the top of bottle even with your chest, you could see him peak a glance at your breasts. You smiled brightly, "Will this do, Terry? I can give you a taste, if you'd like."

That was what finally caught him off guard. "What? Oh, yes, please." Now it was his turn to blush as you popped off the cork. "That's good," he said once an inch of wine filled his glass. You watched intently as he drank it, savoring the low growl he emitted once it hit his throat. "Excellent. You can keep them coming." "Yes, sir," you smiled. His breath caught in his throat as you made eye contact with him, filling his glass a bit too full for company standards. "Anything else I can help you with, Terry?" He shook his head, rolling his tongue over his top teeth. "No. Not right now."

You practically skipped back to the kitchen. After months of teasing and flirting, you'd rendered him speechless. And all it took was a little cleavage? If you'd known that you would've dressed like that every time he came in.

You wanted to talk to him for the rest of the evening - to sit across from him like any other couple on a date. You wanted to be his, unequivocally and fully. With each visit to his table, you lingered, allowing him to pull you into pieces of conversation. When it was time to leave the check, you hesitated. Something about this evening felt different. You didn't want him to leave. When you returned for the final time, he had the checkbook in hand. Had you made him wait too long? Was he upset with you?

"Thanks for spending your Valentine's Day with us, Terry," you smiled at him. Even seated, he was barely shorter than you. "With you, dear. I spent it with you." He caused you to blush this time, and you couldn't stop the laugh that pulled through you. "Well, I enjoyed spending it with you." "As did I." He stood, leaning into you for only a moment. "I hope you're not pulling this routine with all your customers," he laughed. "Because one day I will want you all to myself." He didn't even give you a moment to respond. He set the checkbook within your hands and left with a suave wink.

With flushed cheeks and a still-too-fast heart, you opened the checkbook. Above the signed restaurant copy, was the folded customer copy, bundling up at least ten hundred-dollar bills in tip. Before counting your stash, you unfolded the customer copy. Written right above his signature were three word that ignited a bomb inside your core.

My good girl.

You should’ve been offended. How was he going to write that to you and then leave? He'd done nothing to make you his other than tipping an exorbitant amount. You should’ve stalked him into the parking lot and slapped some sense into him. But you didn’t. Because you fucking liked it. When he asked for your number at his next visit, you were practically foaming at the mouth to hand it over. You’d been charmed by a fucking snake.

And now you were in its den.

You had never been in high society before. You stood tall in a pair of too-high heels and a never-worn dress, clutching nervously to Terry’s outstretched elbow. He was the picture of grace, fitted expertly in a navy-blue suit that he looked absolutely sinful in. You felt out of place and paid for. There was no world in which you belonged at a charity gala, clung to the most expensive man in the room.

You knew that Terry was influential. You knew he was rich. You did not know that he lived in a mansion on the coast, nor that he regularly hosted charity events and galas there. He hadn't even wasted time feeling you out at this event before inviting you to an even fancier gala in three weeks' time. Also at his house. To say you were overwhelmed was an understatement. The unease only made you cling to Terry harder.

“Terry Silver?” a man called from behind you. His tone was hard, and you tensed instinctively. Terry didn’t release you as he turned to face the source of the voice. It belonged to Daniel LaRusso; the man you’d bought your car from a few months after starting your job at the restaurant. There should be no way he remembered you, but his eyes seemed to flicker in recognition before turning back to Terry. “What are you doing here?” “I feel that I should be asking you that. This is my home, of course.” “Terry graciously offered to host this evening,” the smiling woman speaking to Daniel and his wife explained. “He’s one of our top donors.” “Are you trying to impress me?” you laughed, breaking the tense silence. “I wish. I’d have saved a lot of money if I just started contributing when I met you, dear,” he laughed in response.

“I didn’t realize you two knew each other!” the woman exclaimed, excitedly looking between Terry and Daniel. She finally looked at you, “I’m Eva, by the way. One of the board members.” You quickly shook her outreached hand. Terry smiled. “We’ve known each other for, what, 30, 35 years?” “Longer than she’s been alive, at least,” Daniel shot back behind a smile. Your skin crawled at his words, embarrassment flushing your cheeks. Eva haltered. “Let me show you around!” She led Daniel’s wife away quickly, leaving you flustered and practically clinging to Terry. Daniel took a step closer to you, words frantic. “What are you doing here? With him?” Daniel LaRusso was apparently the only person willing to admit you didn’t fit in here. “I’m Terry’s date,” you said, sheepishly. Terry’s hold on you tightened. Daniel grimaced. “What’s he paying you? I can double it if you leave now and never speak to him again.”

Your face burned. He didn’t just think you were out of place, he thought you were Terry’s paid whore. Terry took a step forward, partially shielding you behind him. “I know what you’re insinuating and I do not care for it. I’ve paid her nothing to be here with me, nor has she asked me to. I’m insulted you would suggest that.” Terry exhaled sharply. “I would think twice before insulting me again.” Daniel didn’t even look at you. “Come on, Terry. You’re twice her age. Don’t do this to her.” “And what do you think I’m doing to her, Daniel?" he laughed, charm oozing from his words. "Paying her off to be with me? Threatening her into attending fundraisers? As I said before, she’s not a woman for sale. I would urge you not to insinuate as such.”

He pulled you away before Daniel could say another word. “I’m sorry about that, dear. I’m afraid that man sees me as his nemesis. His views were not reflected on you, but me.” “It’s okay, Terry,” you laughed. “I thought it was kind of hot.” That got his attention. “Really?” “You, defending my honor. Towering over the guy,” you bit your lip. “Hot.” He took a shallow breath. “If this wasn’t at my house, I’d drag you out of here right now.” You giggled, falling in closer to him. “You want that? Want me to take care of you?” You weren’t laughing now, his tone suddenly serious. Heat rose to your chest as you nodded. “I do.” “Good girl.” His hand settled at your waist, pulling you further into his estate.

Terry mingled gracefully, shaking hands and doling out introductions to everyone he came across that he deemed worth talking to. You would never remember all of their names, but you imagined these introductions were for their benefits more than yours. “I’m going to go down to my cellar to get a bottle of Aubert for us. Much better than what they’re serving here.”

You had barely gotten over the fact that he had a fucking wine cellar in his house when Daniel’s wife made her way over to you. “I’m Amanda,” she introduced with an outstretched hand. You took it and quickly introduced yourself. “Sorry about my husband back there. He and Terry have been rivals forever, it seems.” She took a sip of her wine. “It’s all very silly, if you ask me.”

You smiled, thankful for at least one kind person here in Terry’s wake. “Don’t worry about it. I know it looks like I’m just with him for his money. It makes sense Mr. LaRusso would assume that.” Amanda choked on her wine, coughing for a few seconds before finally drawing in a ragged breath. “He did what now?” “He thought Terry paid me to be here with him. Offered me double to leave,” you laughed. Amanda did not. “I am going to kill him. I am so so sorry,” she said before storming off.

“What was that?” Terry asked, suddenly appearing at your side. You accepted the glass of wine from him. “I think she’s going to kill her husband.” You took a sip of the wine and hummed. “This is so much better than the stuff I serve you at work.” “That it is.”

The auction took place next, with a few key guests donating items to be auctioned off for the charity. Nothing was too notable until Daniel LaRusso auctioned off two bonsai trees. It was a good spiel, but at the end of the day they were just a couple trees. So imagine your surprise, when the bidding started at $2,000. And then people actually bid. You didn’t even want to move in case Eva thought you were "in" and you accidentally bid a couple weeks’ worth of tips. It was creeping up for a while before Terry’s arm went up. “$30,000,” he spoke calmly, like he didn’t just bid two years’ worth of rent on a couple tiny trees. You actually gasped at the number. “You okay, dear?” he whispered into your ear. “Mmhmm,” you respond quietly. “Just realized you’ve really been skimping out on my tips.” Terry laughed before patting you gingerly on the thigh and standing to accept his winnings.

He wrapped an arm around you when he sat back down, stirring up another round of goosebumps and adrenaline. His proximity had you feeling high. "What are you going to do with them?" "With the trees?" he asked. You nodded. "Figured I'd put one in my office and give the other to you." Your breath hitched, which Terry immediately noticed. "What's wrong?" "I don't know if you know this, but you just gave me a $15,000 tree," you said shakily. "Don't flatter me that much. Most of it will be a tax write off." "Terry, I don't even know what the fuck that means." This drew a deep, full laugh out of him. "You don't need to, doll. I'll get one of my accountants to do your taxes this year. I'm sure they've gotten a lot more complicated since I started tipping. Although at some point, I feel like they should just be counted as gifts." "Mm, they were gifts, were they?" you leaned into him. "I wasn't just a really good server?" "No one is that good. I loved you from the moment I met you."

Love. He'd said 'love'. Not liked, not admired, but loved. Your heartbeats quickened and hands suddenly grew clammy. "What's wrong, doll?" he asked, worry all over his face. "I just don't feel well, all of the sudden." "Do you want me to drive you home? "No, I-" you stumbled over your words. "Could I just wait for you? Upstairs?" "Of course, baby girl. Let me show you the way."

Terry led you into his home, guiding you up a stairwell behind the kitchen. "I have security at this event, so no one will bother you up here." "Thank you. I'm really sorry." "Don't apologize. I know it's overwhelming. I don't blame you for needing a moment to yourself."

The door closest to the stairs belonged to his bedroom. It was elegant, and dark, and so, so him. A massive king-sized bed sat in front of a fully glass wall facing the ocean. You immediately were drawn to it, pulling the curtains open an inch more to stare at the crashing waves. "Terry, your home is gorgeous." "It could be yours, too, you know?" You turned quickly to look at him, to try and find a hint of a joke in his face. You found none. "I couldn't." "I'm an old man, dear. I've lived a full life and the only thing I've gotten from it is an empty home in need of someone to fill it. I've lived long enough to know what I want. And I want you. All to myself." "I - I don't know what to say. Those people out there all think I'm after your money. They're going to think I extorted those words out of you somehow." "They won't. Everyone downstairs knows my character. They know you couldn't draw a fucking syllable from my lips that I didn't want to utter."

You paused, not wanting to move a muscle in case the illusion broke, and you woke up back in your bed at home. "So, you meant it when you said you loved me?" "I don't say anything I don't mean." You took one small step closer. "You love me?" He smiled. "I love you." You closed the space between you, standing only a few inches away from him. He towered over you like this, looking down from so close. "You don't have to say it back," he reassured you. "You don't even have to feel it yet. But I do. And I need you to know that."

He didn't move from his stance, arms held clutched behind his back. You needed to make the first move. It had been so long since you'd been with someone, you barely knew how. And even then, they'd mostly been flings. No one had pulled on your heart like he had. No one had felt as real as he had.

You started with both hands on his chest, holding loosely to the lapels of his suit. His breath and gaze remained steady, still waiting on you to move further. Slowly, one hand slinked up from his chest to his face, fingers locking into the nape of his neck. Your fingers brushed across his hairline, connecting with the few strands that had slipped from his ponytail. Still, he stood firm.

With your hand planted on his neck, you leaned up to him, hoping your fingers would push him down to meet you in the middle. He obliged, finally moving slightly. There, in his bedroom, steps from the sea, you kissed him for the first time. He was warm and strong and sturdy, tethering you to the earth. Once your lips hit his, he finally moved, wrapping one arm around your waist and sinking the other into your hair. He would grab a handful, then release it, only to grab another. The other arm pulled you flush to him, refusing even an inch of room from him. He needed you against him, breath hot and heavy and intermixed with his. He needed to make you feel good, to pull moans from your lips like hymns from a chorus.

He would've taken you right there had it not been for the knock on the door. You tried to push away from him, to hide what you were doing from the outside world, but Terry held you firm to him. "Yes?" he called out. "Eva's looking for you, Mr. Silver," the voice spoke back. Terry groaned softly, forehead pushing into yours. "Tell her I'll be right there," he called out. With another deep breath, he pulled away from you, straightening his jacket. "Sorry, dear. I'll be back as soon as I can. I'll push for an early end." "You don't have to do that, Terry." He leaned in for one last kiss, so deep and desperate you almost lost your balance. He smiled when he pulled away this time. "Yes, I do."

Terry's bedroom was so large it had its own sitting area. You collapsed onto his couch; the bed would be far too forward, you convinced yourself. And he might not even want you like that. But then, why wouldn't he? He'd already invited you to live with him, to share in all that was his. Already admitted that he loved you. Why would he do that if he didn't want every part of you? You picked at your fingernails, three of which were already chipped, and thought back to his words.

You wanted him. In every way a person could want another, you wanted him. Whether that was today or a year from now, what did it matter? You would be his for as long as he let you. Decided nerves swelled in your chest as you jumped to your feet. The door swung open before you'd made it across the room. "You okay?" he asked, clearly concerned. You nodded, throwing yourself into another kiss. It was hungrier, sloppier than the first, full of want and need and desire. You pulled away breathless. "I want you, Terry. Today and tomorrow and for as long as you'll have me." "Forever, love. I'll have you forever."

You're the one who leads him to the bed. Knowing him, he'd never make the move, waiting forever on you to finally be ready. You remove your dress as you sit on the edge of the bed, baring yourself for him. He doesn't move, drinking in this new image of you, scantily clad on his fucking bed. Then you remove your bra, and looking is no longer enough.

He pushes you back, the bare skin of your back connecting with the silk of his sheets. With both hands, he pushes you back on the bed by your thighs, crawling into you until he's settled between them. With one hand, he fondles your exposed breast, the other pulling handfuls of hair, all while his mouth explores every inch of your skin. Curses and moans slip from your lips, just the touch of his fingers ready to send you over the edge.

"Terry," you moan. "I can hear people downstairs. What if they hear us, or see us?" you ask, motioning to the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"If they see us, then they'll see a man fucking the woman he loves. And if they hear us, they'll know the old man still knows how to keep his woman satisfied." You moan once more at the mixture of his words and fingertips exploring your body.

Your hands move to his chest, pushing the suit jacket off of his defined shoulders. He pulls his shirt off with it, leaving your fingers grazing bare skin. Despite his age, he's still outrageously fit, all muscle and bone. You move to his shoulders, pulling him down on you, his weight pressing into you and trapping you beneath him. Your fingers dig into the flexed muscles of his back, trying to capture each movement as he sinks deeper into you. Your movements are frantic, your need for him growing with each kiss he pressed into your skin. "Terry," you gasped. He didn't pull away, instead opting to leave a gentle bite in the crook of your neck. You moaned deeply. "Like that, baby girl?" he asked. "Need you," you rasped out. "Terry, I need you." "You have me, doll." You groaned, tears of need forming in the corner of your eyes. "Don't tease me." He moaned against your skin, the vibration pulling a whine out of you. "I don't want to tease you, love. Just tell me what you need. I'll take care of you." "I need you to fuck me, Terry." He pulled a way, a proud smile on his lips. "Why didn't you just say so?"

With slow hands, he pulled your underwear from you, drinking in your full body for the first time. You tried to push yourself back, suddenly self-conscious, but he pulled you back in. "Don't run from me, sweet girl."

Your breath was jagged, waiting for his next move. He'd finally taken over control, and he was relishing in it. Each moan he pulled from you was a reward and he loved being rewarded for his good work. "Fuck!" you cursed when he finally sunk a finger into you. You'd done it to yourself countless times, often thinking of him, but it felt nothing like what he was doing to you now. You pushed your cunt against his fingers, needing more of him. With his other hand on your lower stomach, he held you down. "So needy for me," he chided, pushing deeper into you. "Bet you're already close, aren't you, baby?" You couldn't be. There was no way you were going to cum so quick with him just fingering you, but you couldn't deny the tension building within the pit of your stomach. Without slowing, he added another finger, furthering the stretch. Every push and pull intensified the feeling, it was just so fucking right. Your exhales turned to moans, while your eyes rolled to the back of your head. "Good girl," he purred. "Let it out for me." He pushed harder against your stomach, causing his fingers within you to hit a spot they hadn't before. Your eyes locked on his while your fingers locked into his back, nails digging sharp crescents against his toned muscle. "Cum for me, pretty girl. Cum on my fingers and let everyone down there know who's making you feel so good." His words were filthy, bringing you even closer. With a few more pumps, you were pushed over the edge. Your entire body felt it, from the inside out. Your words were a mixture of profanities and his name, barely comprehensibly to even you.

Your pussy fluttered against his fingers, pulling out a groan of his own. A cry left your throat as he pulled out, now clenching onto nothing. "I know, baby. I'm gonna fuck you now. Wouldn't leave you needy like that." He removes his belt with one hand, throwing it to the side of the room. He uses the same to unbuckle his pants and pull them down his hips. His other hand remains firmly on your chest, locking you in place. Then, he's fully bare before you and it's your turn to drink him in.

He's bigger than anyone you'd been with before. He strokes himself twice before repositioning between your legs. "Like what you see, pretty girl?" You nod. "I need you, Terry. All of you." He rubs himself between your folds first, gathering the slick he'd earned from moments before. You're still so sensitive from your orgasm that you jumped at the contact. His hand hadn't moved from your chest, refusing to let you go anywhere. After a moment, you relaxed into his touch again, desire already building once more. He notched himself at your entrance, then focuses his attention fully on you. "Tell me if it hurts." You nod, grabbing up handfuls of sheets.

When he finally sunk into you, you were prepared for pain, ready to push past it. But the pain never came. Your body welcomed him into it, allowing him to fully sink into you with his first thrust. "Fuck," he groaned, body stilled fully within you. "So fucking good, baby," he moans. "You feel so fucking good."

When he pulls out, he positions his hand onto your clit, rubbing small circles, before pushing in again. You give way to him, pushing your hips further against his as moans cascaded from your lips. That gave him the confidence he needed to finally pick up the pace. Your nerves were still on fire, and another orgasm was creeping up on you. "Terry, I-" you begin, but he cut you off. "I know, baby. I can feel it," he groans. "You're fucking pushing me out." "Sorry," you say, trying to push off your orgasm. "Don't be sorry. It feels so fucking good," he says, pace quickening once more. "Don't hold it in, baby. Need you to cum for me."

He pushes harder circles into your clit, finally sending you over the edge once more. Your orgasm is stronger this time, sending shockwaves to the end of your legs and tremors through your core. "Holy shit," Terry moans, still keeping a relentless pace into you. "Oh baby, your pussy feels so fucking good. So tight for me." You relax your body into him once more, allowing him to bottom out within you. You can feel him finish in you, filling you with his cum. He sinks into you, wrapping himself completely around you, clearly spent.

He rests for only a minute before pulling himself out of your arms. He saunters to the en suite, returning a moment later with a warm washcloth. He rubs it between your thighs, careful to catch any of his cum that might have escaped. You jump when he connects with your core, pulling away involuntarily. "It's okay, baby. Let me get you cleaned up." He works slow, careful not to overwork your sensitive nerves.

He doesn't bother putting away the washcloth, throwing it instead onto the hardwood floor beside his bed. Right now, he needed to be beside you. You sunk completely into him, fully sated and worn. "Terry?" you asked, voice thick with sleep. "Yes, doll?" "I want to be here with you. All the time." He laughed deeply, kissing your forehead. "I can make that happen."

#terry silver #terry silver x reader #terry silver imagine #terry silver cobra kai #terry silver cobra kai imagine #cobra kai x reader #cobra kai imagine #cobra kai #cobra kai terry silver

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sihtricfedaraaahvicius · 3 days ago

Text

Firefighter: chapter 5

note: one year later… (a thank you to @neonhairspray for, I think it was you at least, sparking the idea of the stripper pole, and a thank you to @foxyanon for the song idea).

previous chapters: part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - Valentine's HCs

warnings: 18+!! suggestive/smut. Some angst at the beginning.

pairing: firefighter!Sihtric x fem!reader (no use of Y/N)

summary: you and your flaming hot firefighter needed some alone time.

word count: 4,6k

Masterlist

Reblogs & comments are immensely appreciated.

Your fun Halloween night had turned dark abruptly, when your firefighter boyfriend had to sober up instantly after receiving an emergency call in the middle of the night. Sihtric had ordered you to stay home before he left in a rush, to Beocca and Thyra's home, as the building had unfortunately caught fire.

You struggled to stay put, desperately wanting to jump in your car and drive after Sihtric, as being alone with your thoughts was almost unbearable that night. Thyra was your friend too, and even more than that; you considered her family. Just like everyone who had ties to the firemen who worked with Sihtric considered each other all as family. You were worried about Thyra, knowing she had left the Halloween party early as you had seen her in passing, when you and Sihtric were on your way to get it on in the showers. You didn't know if Thyra was the one who had made the call, meaning she would most likely be safe. Or if she was trapped inside the property, and the fire was called in by an alarming neighbour or perhaps by Beocca himself.

Your thoughts spiralled further and further, and not just about Thyra, because obviously you were concerned about Sihtric's safety too. And not just your mind was racing, all the ladies whose boyfriends and husbands were called up that night were concerned, and you all stayed in touch through texts and brief calls. No one could get a hold of Thyra, which concerned everyone even more, but the other ladies were quick to get a grip on themselves before you were able to. They had been living the life of a firefighter's other half much longer than you had, so they did what they could to try and keep you calm. They reminded you that Sihtric would never take any unnecessary risks, and that surely he would be fine doing his job, even if it was a daunting task because of how personal it was.

You knew they were right, and in the end all you could do was wait for Sihtric to come home to you. Because only then you would be able to feel truly at ease and calm; when his strong arms would be wrapped safely around you again.

After sitting in his car for at least twenty minutes while parked in the driveway, Sihtric finally managed to drag himself up to the front door, where he struggled to get the key in the door. His arms felt heavy and his hands trembled from exhaustion, after the adrenaline of the night had worn off completely. He had showered at the station already and changed clothes, but he could still smell the lingering scent of smoke and ashes around him.

It had been such a rollercoaster, from having a fun party to making love with you while wearing Halloween outfits, to eventually having to report that the house of people who he loved dearly was completely lost. He hadn't even had a second to process everything that had happened so far.

Sihtric had been on autopilot the whole drive back, not quite remembering how he had ended up back home again and not even really realising he was there, until he heard the front door fall shut behind him. His tired and mismatched eyes scanned the living room he loved stepping into after a long day, yet this time he felt empty as he didn't see you there. But a soft smile then tugged at his lips, when your two beloved cats Dog and Thor, one black and one white, ran up to him with a loud and excited meowing.

You had somehow found your way upstairs and into bed at some point during the stressful night, and you had fallen asleep for a few short hours. You only woke up with a slight scare when you heard the door slam shut downstairs, but you calmed down when the sound that followed was the recognisable stomping of Sihtric's heavy safety boots, as he walked over to the couch. You heard the cats meow faintly and couldn't help but smile as you grabbed your robe and made haste down the stairs. You froze as soon as you saw Sihtric sitting quietly on the couch, staring down at his feet while he mindlessly ran his fingers through the soft fur of the two cats who were purring happily in his lap.

'Thyra?' you asked, barely louder than a whisper as to not startle him, and you held your breath while awaiting his answer.

Sihtric swallowed hard as he kept silent for a few long seconds, which made your stomach turn. But he then suddenly let out a sharp exhale of relief and nodded as he finally looked up at you.

'Thyra is safe,' he said, his voice sounding as exhausted as he looked, 'the house is lost, but everyone is okay.'

'Oh, thank god,' you said, relieved.

You wasted no time running up to your firefighter when Sihtric opened his arms to you, inviting you to hold him as he desperately needed to hold you after the night he had. He gently ushered the cats to leave his lap, making space for you, and you wrapped your arms around each other as you straddled him.

'And you?' you asked and ran your hand through his short hair, 'are you okay, love?'

'I am now,' Sihtric whispered and leaned into your touch, almost as if he had taken over a cat's mannerism, 'I am now,' he said again, then squeezed you in his arms, 'I love you.'

'And I love you,' you whispered and kissed his lips.

'Are you okay?' he asked.

'I will be okay,' you said, your smile fragile but genuine, 'I will be okay as long as you come home to me.'

'I'm sorry the night ended like this,' he whispered, his forehead leaning against yours, 'something messed up just always happens during these days.'

'Maybe you were right,' you whispered, 'maybe bad things always happen during this time of the year, but you'll never have to go through them alone again, I promise.'

Weeks had passed since the eventful Halloween night and, after everyone had come to terms with the disaster that had luckily claimed no casualties, life was seemingly returning back to normal again.

You and Sihtric celebrated the holidays together. He took you out for a fancy dinner during Christmas, and back home again you both enjoyed a few drinks, a couple too many perhaps. Sihtric's goodhearted attempt to treat you to a steamy striptease that night went south, as you both were too drunk. He struggled to unzip his firefighter jacket, and when he gave up on that, you lost your balance and tripped as you wanted to help him take off his cargo jeans. And so you ended up on the floor together, laughing, and then making out until you both fell asleep on the kitchen floor, only to be woken up by two concerned cats the next morning as they meowed in your ears.

You celebrated New Year's Eve at Uhtred's place with your firefighter family, another evening where you and your smoking hot boyfriend enjoyed each other thoroughly, for the most part. You partied all night and kissed at midnight, as the fireworks went off, and a few shots later you were dragging Sihtric up the stairs with you to one of the bedrooms in Uhtred's house. But just when you were about to enjoy the very first sexual act of the new year, Uhtred's dog barged into the room and jumped on the bed, interrupting while Sihtric was about to pull down your panties and bury his head between your thighs. You both laughed it off and decided to get down to business when you'd be back home again. But once you both enjoyed the comfort of your own bed that night, you dozed off rather fast while Dog, Sihtric's black cat, was purring in between the two of you. And when Sihtric wanted to make a move in the early morning, waking you up slowly by lightly caressing your sweet spot with his fingers, he was called into work because some cars in the city had caught fire due to fireworks.

The year started off rather calmly after that first night, with only a few emergency calls for Sihtric to answer throughout the weeks that followed. He managed to take some time off during Valentine's day, and he had surprised you by taking you to Disneyland in Paris, where he eventually proposed to you. It had been the trip of a lifetime, but now that the engagement anniversary was approaching, almost one year later, you suddenly realised that it had also been the only trip you had taken together in all this time of being together. Life had just been in the way as time went on after that one trip, and you hoped for another romantic surprise this upcoming Valentine's day. But Sihtric had another firefighter training to attend which lasted a few days. That meant he was working long days and nights, and so you barely got to see each other as you worked your own job too during Valentine's week.

Sihtric came home late during the training days, completely exhausted and worn out, and soon you realised that your sex life had taken a rather bad turn since the holidays. Whether you were interrupted, too tired or too drunk, the last time you had been truly intimate with each other was months ago, and it didn't feel right.

It wasn't that you weren't attracted to each other anymore, not at all. Sihtric still set your entire body ablaze whenever you saw him. It didn't matter if he was dressed in his dirty uniform after work, or if he was all cleaned up and walking shirtless around the house, showing off those abs and almost ridiculous biceps of his, your desire for him was always there. And you knew Sihtric still desired you all the same too, never being able to keep his hands or eyes off of you when he was near you, but he was just so tired lately and not up for anything. And it became clear that he simply needed a break from work when you were in bed one evening, after his intense training had finally come to an end, one day before Valentine's day.

You ran your fingers slowly through his hair while he faced you, his eyes were closed but you knew he wasn't sleeping yet, as he responded to your touch with a faint smile and soft hums.

'When was the last time you took a break from work?' you asked.

'I don't know, darling,' Sihtric murmured sleepily, 'I don't really take breaks, I guess.'

'I'm starting to find out,' you said, 'ever since we met you've been constantly working. Except for when you took me to Paris, but that's-'

'One year ago,' Sihtric said and opened his eyes, 'shit,' he mumbled and sighed, then rubbed his hands over his face. 'I'm sorry, baby,' he whispered and wrapped his arms around you, 'I had no idea a year had gone by already. I'm sorry.'

'It's one year tomorrow,' you said, your face buried in his bare chest, 'I know we've both been working a lot, but I just… I don't know how it happened.'

'How what happened?'

'How we both completely lost track of time as our lives went on,' you said, 'you haven't had a break from work in a year, and we haven't had a nice little getaway in a year either. It's affecting us, Siht. Is it not? We've barely been intimate lately, for all kinds of reasons, and I just think we need a break from our daily life and have some time for just the two of us again.'

'You're right,' Sihtric whispered, 'I know things have been different between us, but that is because I've just been tired. It won't always be like this.'

'But it will be if you continue to work the way you do.'

'Maybe,' he said softly, 'I don't know, darling.'

'I do,' you said and looked up at him, 'I know you love your job, honey, but it's a heavy one. Heavy for the both of us, actually. And you need a break. We both need a break.'

Sihtric agreed after some contemplating, and he promised he'd do whatever it took in order to get the weekend off work, just in time to celebrate a belated Valentine's day and engagement anniversary.

You woke up early Saturday morning, the day after Valentine's day, and you found yourself alone in bed. No Sihtric and no cats were to be found in the bedroom, just you. You rubbed your eyes as you fully woke up, and then heard some cat hissing and stumbling noises coming from downstairs, followed by Sihtric's muffled but still firm voice.

'I swear I will return you to the shelter you came from!' you heard him hiss.

You chuckled as you got dressed in your robe, figuring that Thor, your beloved white cat and gift from your fiancé after he had accidentally killed your previous cat, Mister Meow Meow, was probably up to no good again. You quietly made your way down the stairs and found Sihtric in the living room, which was decorated with several heart shaped balloons that floated up in the air, except for one. One balloon was clawed to shreds by the menace of your cat, and Sihtric was in the middle of dragging the beast away from the decorations to avoid further damage. The remaining balloons were attached to a large vase on the coffee table, which was filled with dozens of red roses, and you couldn't help but get a little teary eyed at the sight of it.

'You weren't supposed to be awake already,' Sihtric sighed with an embarrassed smile when he saw you, 'Thor went for the balloons, and I wasn't done fixing it up yet.'

'I heard,' you laughed, 'and don't worry, I love it anyway, it's perfect.'

'I am glad,' he smiled and took your hands.

Sihtric pulled you close and captured you in a soft kiss, with his arms wrapped tightly around you. He apologised for being so busy that he had more or less forgotten to buy you a decent gift, so all he had to show you today were the flowers and a few boxes of your favourite candy. You told him you were the happiest girl regardless, but he made sure to really make you feel like you were the happiest girl in the world when he told you he had booked a cabin somewhere remote for the weekend, at the very last minute. He had already packed the bags and prepared the car, and he had asked some of his firefighter friends to look after the cats and the house, and the dozens of roses too.

In the car you told him you didn't really have a gift for him in return, as you had been busy too and it was hard to find a suitable gift for him, but Sihtric told you not to worry about it.

'You're my gift, darling,' he said with a smirk, and he kissed the back of your hand as he speeded over the highway.

You arrived at your destination early in the afternoon, and Sihtric hadn't lied when he said that the place was remote, with the wooden cabin being tucked away far in a deep forest, entirely removed from civilization. The place was cosy looking from the outside, but once inside you realised this was not a family friendly rental. There was a prepared jacuzzi in the middle of the cabin, in the back of the cabin was an open kitchen with a dining table, and a small living room space next to it with a sofa and a tv. On your left there was a large bed which overlooked the entire place, and in the open space between the jacuzzi and the bed was a… stripper pole.

'Sihtric?' you snorted as you looked at the stripper pole, 'what the hell is that?'

'I booked this place for the jacuzzi,' Sihtric shrugged and placed the bags on the floor, 'but if you want to use that pole, I won't stop you.'

'You better wipe that grin off your face, handsome,' you laughed and wrapped your arms around his neck, 'because you are the one who still owes me a striptease.'

'Only on Mondays,' he smiled and pecked your lips.

'Then we'll pretend today is a Monday,' you giggled and unzipped his leather jacket.

Sihtric wasn't going to argue with that, as he wanted and desperately needed a flaming hot evening with you again after all this time, so he allowed you to lead him to the bed without even checking out the bathroom or garden first. You took his hand and attempted to pull him onto the bed with you, but he stopped you when you laid down already.

'Wait,' he smiled and kissed you, 'we need some music, don't we?'

'Do we now?' you asked with a cheeky smile.

'If you want me to strip for you,' Sihtric chuckled and connected his phone to the bluetooth speaker he had brought, 'then yes, we need music.'

He then closed the black curtains and switched on the dimly red ceiling light, while the rest of the all black ceiling had small white led lights scattered across it, looking like a clear starry night sky. You sat back on the bed and watched him grab an unopened bottle of water and a chair from the dining table, which he dragged towards the bed and placed in front of you. He sat down on the chair, fully dressed; wearing his signature black cargo jeans with black leather boots underneath, a white shirt that hugged his figure, with a black hoodie over it which was unzipped, and the finishing touch was his leather jacket, which you had already unzipped. He wore his bronze hammer pendant around his neck and one small silver hoop earring, as usual, from which a small cross dangled.

Sihtric smirked at you, his eyes highlighted with a faint hint of black eyeliner, and he then threw his phone on the bed as the music started to play.

Step inside

Walk this way

You and me babe

Hey, hey…

Def Leppard's Pour Some Sugar On Me blasted through the darkened room, and Sihtric got up from his chair. He placed one foot on the seat as he towered over you, and he took your hands. He guided your hands up his torso and under his leather jacket, and he then allowed the jacket to slowly slide off his shoulders and down his arms, while your hands were still placed on his muscular chest. You couldn't hide a giggle when you looked up at Sihtric, who smiled slyly and winked at you as he threw his jacket on the floor.

He then stripped himself off his zipped hoodie, taking his time to tease you by slowly revealing his toned biceps as he swayed his hips lightly to the beat of the music, which made your head spin all the more. His body was impressive, even with most still hidden under his clothes. And despite knowing exactly what he looked like without clothes, you still squirmed on the bed with anticipation while he stripped for you.

Sihtric then reached for your hands again and slid them under his white shirt. You blushed heavily at the warm feeling of his perfectly muscular body underneath your hands, all while he continued to roll his hips seductively to the beat, right in front of you.

Now c'mon, take a bottle, shake it up

Break the bubble, break it up…

Sihtric stepped back and grabbed the water bottle from the floor. He opened it and leaned back slightly as he faced you, so you had a good view when he took a sip, before he suddenly poured the cool liquid down his head. You laughed and nearly squealed as you watched it happen, you already knew Sihtric was a fun guy, but he seemed to be really giving you his all this time. He soaked his short hair completely, and the water ran down his face, to his neck and all over his white shirt, which became drenched and see through within seconds.

I'm hot, sticky sweet

From my head to my feet, yeah…

Your jaw dropped at the sight of your smoking hot firefighter fiancé, who now had water dripping down his perfect face, and a white wet shirt sticking to his perfect body. You were stunned and speechless, but most of all you were aroused, and your wide eyes betrayed that. You watched how Sihtric teasingly ran his hands through his wet hair as he looked at you with his own dark and mischievous eyes, slowly licking his lips while he then moved his tattooed fingers without hurrying down his see through shirt. He slowly took off his shirt and threw it on the floor. He stepped closer, sliding his hand up the back of your neck and into your hair as he faced you, and he grabbed a fistful of your hair and brought your lips to his bare torso, guiding you as you kissed and licked the water droplets off his body.

'This is yours, darling,' Sihtric breathed, 'I'm all yours,' he took your chin, directing your eyes to his, 'tell me I'm all yours.'

'You're all mine,' you said with a light gasp and a dazed smile.

'That's right,' Sihtric smiled and bit down on his lip, 'God, you're perfect,' he whispered as he held your chin gently, 'now say that back to me, baby. Tell me you are perfect.'

'I- I'm perfect,' you whispered, shyly but willing to do anything for him.

'Damn right you are,' he smiled and kissed your lips, 'you're perfect, and hotter than a goddamn fire on a summer day.'

You giggled softly as he kissed both your hands, and he then stepped back to place one foot on the chair again. He told you to untie the laces of his leather booth, and you struggled to focus while he grinded his crotch nearly against your face in a teasing manner as you tried to do what he had told you. The same was repeated when you untied his other booth, and he then kicked his shoes off before he picked you up in his arms. He kissed you as he carried you over to the stripper pole, holding you easily with one arm while he dragged the chair with him, and he sat you down in front of the pole. He smiled and winked at you again as he took a step back, and you then watched him grab the pole, only to watch him make a quick spin around it before he pulled himself up and climbed up the pole. You gaped at his flexing muscles as he slowly allowed his body to slide down again, until his feet touched the ground, and he rolled his hips seductively as he lowered himself down to his knees while still holding the pole.

Sihtric then leaned back against the pole, taking your hands and bringing them up to help unbutton his jeans. He slowly lowered his cargos, revealing his black Boss underwear little by little while he kept his eyes on you. You didn't know where to look; at his toned chest, at his perfectly shaped V-line as it was right in front of you, or at his muscular thighs which were revealed painstakingly slow by him while he continued to dance for you.

He saw the need and lust in your eyes, and he smiled when he finally kicked off his jeans and got rid of his black socks too.

'You want me?' Sihtric chuckled darkly as he leaned in, dragging his lips over your neck as he kissed you, 'hm?'

'I do,' you almost whined, 'god, I do, you know I do.'

'I know,' he murmured against your lips and kissed you, then picked you up in his arms again, 'and you know I like it when you get so needy for me, so fired up for me,' he chuckled softly again.

You smiled as you looked down into his eyes, and you ran your fingers through his wet hair as you crashed into an eager kiss while he carried you to the pre-heated jacuzzi.

'Wait,' you suddenly gasped, 'Sihtric, wait! No-'

But before you could tell him off, you already found yourself fully dressed and in the warm water with him.

'Damnit! Sihtric!' you laughed, 'why?!'

'You looked a little hot there,' Sihtric laughed and pulled you close so he could kiss you again, 'figured I had to put out that fire in time, you know?' he grinned.

'You and your bad jokes,' you smiled and kissed him.

You allowed Sihtric to take your soaked clothes off too, to eventually have a steamy make out session in that jacuzzi, before you landed in bed with your hot fiancé and enjoyed several climaxes in the hours that followed.

When you both woke up the next morning you fully realised the mess you had made the night before. With used towels, lube stained sheets, and still damp clothes scattered all through the room, along with a variety of sex toys that were on full display as they were left next to the bed. You smiled sheepishly at each other and cleaned up everything before enjoying some breakfast together.

'Let us promise that we won't wait another year to take some time off work and have a little getaway again,' Sihtric said as he had his coffee, his short hair messy and his eyes tired but full of life and love.

'I agree,' you smiled, 'and I'm glad you're having a good time too, away from work.'

'Are you kidding me?' Sihtric chuckled and leaned back in his chair, eyeing you up and down for a second, 'the things you did last night?' He scratched his goatee and fought a grin, 'I'd quit my job if that meant I'd be getting that treatment every night.'

You smirked, remembering how you had made him groan and grunt heavily for a good hour, when you had him with his hands tied to the bed frame and completely naked. 'You wouldn't survive that every night,' you said.

'Oh yeah?' he leaned in, 'why don't you try me?'

'Only if you strip for me every night,' you shrugged.

'That's not fair,' Sihtric pouted and crossed his arms, 'do you know how much effort that requires?'

'Oh, like bouncing and choking on that cock of yours doesn't require effort?' you raised your brow, 'or that boobjob, or trying to stay up on my wobbly legs while you take me from behind and in front of a mirror after two orgasms already is not requiring any effort from my side?'

'Well,' he cleared his throat and shrugged, not having an answer back to that as his thoughts took him back to the night before again.

'Well?' you laughed, 'what about it?'

'Nothing,' Sihtric mumbled and sipped his coffee, then cleared his throat again as he felt his cheeks reddened, 'anyway, what's next for us then, sweetheart?'

'I don't know, babe,' you shrugged, 'plan a wedding?'

'When do you want to get married?'

'Oh, I don't know,' Sihtric smiled, 'maybe next Valentine's day?'

@mrsarnasdelicious @neonhairspray @sihtricsafin @errruvande @penumbrie @lexeirikrleif @diiickbrainn @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @bubblyabs @dixie-elocin @alexagirlie @stupiddarkkside @urmomsgirlfriend1 @gemini-mama @foxyanon @man-i-be-that-pretty-motherfuckr @thenameswinter99 @m-a-s-h-k-a @superblyzanynight @hernakedmuse @ewanmitchellfanatic @lady-targaryens-world @cosmosnkaz @stronger-than-steel @cheesesandwichsanto

#sihtric x reader #sihtric kjartansson #the last kingdom #sihtric x you #sihtric fic #sihtric #tlk #tlk fic #sihtric au #tlk au #modern!sihtric

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smilingformoney · 3 days ago

Text

Die With a Smile

Chapter VI. Never Tear Us Apart

Summary: Every action has a reaction, but nothing lasts forever.

Read on Ao3 or below the cut:

Mary had never expected to get married, but of course, she’d fantasised about it. When she was fixing a hand-me-down wedding dress, she’d wonder about the kind of dress she might wear. She thought about children, and the sort of things married couples did to create them, and though she yearned for a brood of her own, she never thought she’d have one. She’d accepted long ago that her purpose in life was to protect Tommy, and maybe one day he’d be the one to find a nice girl to marry.

She’d thought about a wedding day, the first night, the life that comes after. She’d fantasised about what life would be like to live amongst the gentry.

She’d never imagined it would be like this.

Elliott was right. Turpin only wanted her for her body. He filled her up with his seed at every opportunity, at minimum every morning and every night. He’d mutter filth into her ear as he fucked her, telling her how good she’d look once her belly began to grow with his child.

The rest of the time, he ignored her. He spent most of the day at court, and if his evenings weren’t spent socialising with his peers, he sat at his desk and worked on his paperwork. Sometimes he’d have visitors over, other important-looking men who sat around drinking gin and smoking cigars, talking about whatever men talked about.

Mary always had to stay out of sight when visitors came over. She didn’t mind that. Turpin’s friends frightened her almost as much as he did. And sometimes he’d be too drunk for sex, so she’d have a night of respite, and sometimes a morning too if his hangover was too troublesome.

At least when he was out, Mary could see Tommy. They’d go out into the courtyard and play games, and because he was acting under orders of the Lady of the House, the butler who bossed him around couldn’t tell him off.

She had a weekly allowance, which she used to buy materials, as Turpin had allowed her to turn Johanna’s old room into a makeshift workshop. She wasn’t to sell anything she made - Lord Turpin couldn’t have anyone thinking his wife had to make her own money - but he allowed her to do it as it kept her busy and out of the way. She mostly made children’s clothes, and at night Tommy would sneak out with them and give them to Mrs Harris to hand them out to the children who lived on the street, those who had once been Mary and Tommy’s friends.

After the first month, Mary worked up the courage to ask Turpin about the promise he’d made.

She knew she had to get him in a good mood first. Some days he ordered her to visit him at court during lunch, so when he sat at his desk with a sigh of frustration, Mary obediently knelt between his legs and took him in her mouth.

When he finished, she licked him clean, then sat on his lap as he tucked into the sandwich she’d brought him.

“Sir, might I ask you about something?”

Turpin grunted through a mouthful of sandwich.

“When you proposed to me, you said you’d put Tommy into school. Did you really mean that?”

Turpin snorted derisively, then swallowed.

“Yes, I did. But surely you don’t expect me to follow through on that, do you?”

Mary blinked in surprise. “Oh - um —”

“You also told me you’d marry me, then promptly made every effort not to do so. I don’t see why I should follow through on my promise when you tried so ardently not to follow through on yours. He’s working in the kitchens, that’ll teach him everything he needs, and I’ll hear no more on the subject.”

“…Right. Of course. Sorry, sir.”

After Turpin returned to court, Mary went down to the Post Office.

She was learning to read and write, but her progress was slow. All she had were the letters Elliott had taught her. She had to put words together bit by bit, and no doubt her spelling was atrocious. Fortunately, since very few people in London could read or write, the Post Office offered a scribe to write out dictated letters to those who could pay. And thanks to her allowance from Turpin, Mary could pay.

Once the letter was written, she almost cried when the scribe read it back to her.

Dearest Elliott,

I know you must hate me, but I beg of you not to throw this letter in the fire. When I first accepted William’s proposal, before I knew of your feelings for me, he promised an education for Tommy. I know now he has no intention of following through on that promise. I cannot stand the thought of him spending his life in the kitchens, but it seems William is determined to leave him there. I know he would thrive with you. I don’t ask you to adopt him as you said. Employ him as you would any other, if you must. But please, I beg of you, take him away with you. I know I would never see him again. But I’d rather he leave forever, and know he’ll thrive, than have him by my side but wasting away in the kitchens. I know I ask a lot. But Tommy is only a boy. None of this is his fault. I won’t ask you to forgive me, and if you refuse, I’ll understand. But please, if you truly loved me, do this one thing for me. For Tommy.

All my love, Mary

She gave the return address as Mrs Harris’ shop, and waited anxiously for a reply. Even just to hear a “no.” And when the night came that Tommy delivered the weekly bundle of children’s clothes to Mrs Harris, Mary waited for his return, hoping he’d come back before Turpin woke up and found her missing from the bed.

The response she received was worse than a no.

Tommy handed her an envelope addressed to her, and inside was another envelope - her own letter returned, unopened. With it a note. By candlelight, and with much difficulty, Mary managed to read:

Lady Turpin,

I return your letter unopened. Although curious, it’s not for me to interrupt the communiqué of lovers. My nephew left for Australia mere hours after you left for London. He’ll be almost to Cape Town by now. Below is his address in Australia. Though I warn you, you may wait six months before receiving any reply. Good luck.

Sincerely, Duke R. Beaumont

Mary tore off the bottom part of the letter containing Elliott’s address, stashed it away between the pages of her sketchbook, and promptly burnt both her unopened letter and the body of the Duke’s response.

It was another hour before she went back to bed, once her tears had dried. She knew Turpin would never stand for her crying in bed, much less if he knew the reason for her tears.

It was about two months into the marriage that Mary realised one day that she hadn’t yet had her monthly - not, she realised, since the week before she’d met Elliott. The only bleeding she had was after sex, when Turpin hadn’t prepared her properly.

She tried not to think too much of it. But when she began bringing her food back up for no apparent reason, she couldn’t deny the truth.

She told Turpin her suspicions one night after he’d finished, and in a rare display of emotion other than irritation or lust, he grinned with excitement and kissed her.

“Oh, darling, I knew you’d be able to give me a son! Such a good, dutiful wife.”

He took her again, the news apparently springing his cock back to life, and held her close against his body as he thrust into her.

“What a good wife you are, taking my seed so well… mhm, yes, I can’t wait to see you swell. My perfect wife, carrying my son…”

He’s not your son.

The thought came unbidden, but Mary knew it was true. Logically, she couldn’t. She couldn’t even know it was a boy, let alone that Elliott would be the father. But something deep inside her - perhaps her mother’s instinct, or perhaps something deeper, something in her soul - it told her the truth. Yes, she was carrying a son, but not her husband’s son.

She swore to herself, there and then, as her husband spilled his seed inside her for the second time that night, that he would never learn the truth.

She was already lying to him. He still thought that he’d taken her virginity the night he’d snuck into her bed and raped her. What harm could it do to let him think the child was his?

When the baby was born, Mary had little choice over the name. He was William Turpin’s first son, so tradition dictated he would also be William Turpin.

It felt strange, though, to call her son the same name as her husband, so she nicknamed the child Billy.

Turpin wasted no time trying to get Mary pregnant again. She was exhausted from spending all day looking after the baby, too tired for sex, so she simply laid there and let her husband do what he needed to do. He quickly got bored of that, though, so he hired a nanny to help look after the child, giving Mary some time to rest.

Not because he loved her, or because he cared about her needs. Mary had accepted a long time ago that things like care and kindness were things she’d never get from him. But it was because, he told her, she had a duty to her husband. And, despite everything, she was still attracted to him, so when she had the energy for sex again, she was an eager participant.

It was really the only connection they had. And because he kept her inside, it was pretty much the only connection she had at all other than Tommy. So Mary took what Turpin would give her, and if that was nothing but sexual chemistry, then so be it.

It wasn’t long before she was pregnant again. She recognised the symptoms straight away this time, but there were some other symptoms she was more concerned about than her own.

Turpin was sick.

The doctor threw every treatment he could think of at him, but sickness was even more powerful than the great Judge Turpin, and he died within a week of falling ill.

Mary sat dutifully by his bed every day, nursing him the best she could, making sure he got as much time with little Billy as he could.

He must have known when he was about to pass. He’d been stubbornly trying to get up and go to work all week, even flirting with Mary as if he was in any state to do anything. But that day, he’d been lethargic and quiet, not like himself at all. And as Mary rocked Billy to sleep in her arms, Turpin just watched her.

“Mary,” he croaked when she returned from putting the boy in his crib. “Mary. Mary…”

“Yes, I’m here, Will,” Mary said softly as she sat back down and took his hand in hers. His hand that looked nothing like his hand, now it was ghostly pale and thin, hardly capable of moving.

“Mary… I need you to tell me the truth. I know… I know you loved Elliott. Tell me… is the boy his?”

Lying to him was almost second nature to her now.

“No. No, he’s not, Will. I’ve only ever been with you. You know that.”

Turpin let out a long sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he wheezed. “Mary, I’m so sorry. For taking your innocence as I did, for forcing you to marry me. Elliott was right. You can tell him that, from me. He said so, didn’t he? He said I’d die miserable and alone, that no one could ever love me.”

“You’re not alone,” Mary said earnestly. “I’m here.”

Turpin looked at her and smiled.

“I couldn’t help falling in love with you.”

Mary wiped away a tear.

When she looked back at him, he was gone.

She cried. She didn’t know why. She hated him, didn’t she? He’d trapped her, hadn’t he?

But he was her husband, and he’d been alive, and now he was neither of those things.

So she cried.

- - -

Elliott was having a lot of fun playing with his food.

Ever since his return to Australia, his men had noticed a change in him. He’d always been ruthless; he’d slaughter an Aborigine camp without a second thought just to get a nice spot to build a new pigsty. But something had changed, and nobody dared ask why, because just the slightest change in the wind was enough to set him off.

He had a vendetta, but the source of his ire was back in London, so he took his frustrations out on anyone who pissed him off.

And for the last few weeks, that someone had been Matthew Quigley.

Now, he had his prize in front of him. The great Quigley, the hero of the Aborigines, the fucking pain in Elliott’s backside. He thought he could show up, take Elliott’s money, and refuse him. Well, nobody said no to Elliott Marston. Certainly no one who lived to tell the tale.

“Now you’re right in front of my old pistol target,” Elliott laughed. How many times had he practised shooting here, imagining himself in a duel with some outlaw? Now here he was, laying down the law - his law, on his land - and the American cowboy was no match for his quick draw.

“Some men —” Elliott began, but he cut himself off when he heard the familiar sound of a horse’s hooves on the ground, the creaking of wooden wheels turning.

Elliott frowned as he looked in the distance at the approaching carriage. He wasn’t expecting any visitors.

“O’Flynn, get the gate,” Elliott commanded. “Dobkin — take back the revolver, make sure he can’t do anything while my back is turned.”

His two remaining men ran to follow Elliott’s command, both well trained by now to obey him without question.

Elliott watched as the carriage came closer and passed through his gate. He thought it intriguing that it was a carriage, not a wagon. The visitor must be someone important, or unused to Australian heat, or both, with very little luggage.

The driver finally pulled to a stop and hopped down to open the carriage door. Elliott approached with a mixture of caution and curiosity. The door opened, the driver gave a small bow, and held out his hand to help the mysterious occupant down.

It was a good thing Elliott’s gun was still in its holster. He might have dropped it in shock.

He never thought he’d see her again. He’d resigned himself to a life without her, come to terms with the fact she’d been a fleeting light in the darkness. He’d neither love nor marry again, and that was something he’d accepted months ago.

Yet here she was, as beautiful as the day she’d left for London, despite his begging and his promises. She’d left with a cloud of misery hanging over her shoulders, and leaving another hanging over him too.

She reached back into the carriage for something. She pulled back, and the driver closed the door as Mary straightened up, holding…

A baby.

She had a baby.

She turned, her eyes searching, and when she spotted him, she smiled. A true, radiant smile that, although Elliott didn’t know it, she hadn’t sported in a very long time.

“Mary…” Elliott croaked. He took a few steps towards her, then jogged the rest of the way, too impatient to walk.

“Mary, what - what are you doing here?”

Elliott glanced around, wondering who else might be in the carriage, but he saw no sign of the man who’d torn them apart.

“You said you’d wait for me,” Mary said hesitantly. “…Did you?”

“Yes! Yes, of course I did, I… oh, Mary, look at you.” Elliott took her face in his hands as if to check she were real. “I could never love anyone but you. But why — where —?”

“He died,” Mary said, answering the question he was hesitating to ask. “Some sickness, it took him quick. I sold everything and bought us passage to Australia. I don’t expect anything from you, Elliott, but… I wanted you to meet your son.”

“My —?”

Elliott looked down at the baby in her arms, one hand carefully reaching out to cradle the boy’s round, bald head.

“The moment I knew he was there, I knew he was yours. I just knew.”

She didn’t have to explain. There was no science to prove it, the timing told them nothing, but Elliott knew it too. He could tell, looking at this tiny human clinging to his mother, that he was his son.

“What’s his name?”

“I didn’t dare tell him he was yours, so I didn’t have much choice. Everyone calls him Billy, though.”

“Hello, Billy,” Elliott said softly. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Buh,” said Billy, and his tiny fingers wrapped around Elliott’s thumb.

“What a gentleman, he’s shaking your hand!” Mary laughed.

“He certainly is. Oh, Mary, he’s perfect.”

He looked up at her, a grin on his face and the threat of tears in his eyes.

“Just like his mother.”

Mary smiled coyly. Over her shoulder, Elliott saw the driver unloading the bags from the back of the carriage. And with him, a few inches taller than Elliott remembered, was Tommy.

“Tommy!” Elliott called. “I’m glad to see you’re alright!”

Tommy waved back, then turned his attention to the bag he was lifting. Elliott turned back towards his men, who were both standing guard over Quigley, watching with no doubt a lot of confusion.

“O’Flynn, keep an eye on him. Dobkin - put the boy’s bags in the lodge, and Mary’s in my house.”

“You’ll - you’ll let us stay?” Mary said cautiously.

“Mr Marston, what’re we doing with him?” O’Flynn called over, interrupting before Elliott could respond.

Elliott rolled his eyes. He glanced lazily over at Quigley, who was still standing by the fencepost, not daring to move with no gun to defend himself with and O’Flynn standing guard.

He’d spent the last few weeks obsessing over capturing Quigley, and now, Elliott found he didn’t care about playing with his food. The man had to be executed, and Elliott would certainly not be giving him a gun for a duel, not with three precious lives so close.

He whipped his pistol out and shot Quigley clean in the head.

Mary yelped in surprise, and her hand flew to cover Billy’s exposed ear, the other already pressed against her chest.

“Chuck him in a ditch somewhere,” Elliott called back to O’Flynn before reholstering his gun and turning back to Mary, who was staring in shock at Quigley’s dead body.

“Elliott, you killed him!”

“Sorry, darling, you came right in the middle of his execution. He’s a dangerous man — or was, anyway,” Elliott smirked. “He killed almost all of my men. Dobkin and O’Flynn are all that’s left. I can’t have him free, especially not with you here. Come on — let’s get you out of the sun. Dobkin will get your bags.”

Elliott put an arm around Mary’s waist and guided her towards his house.

“I know you told me how big Australia is, Elliott, but it’s hard to comprehend until you see it. It’s enormous! I thought we must have been going in circles with how long it took to get here from Perth. And the driver told me most of the land we crossed is yours!”

“It certainly is,” Elliott said with pride. “And I took about another 200 acres of farmland after I came back. Here we are. Do you want some water? You must be parched.”

Once inside, he guided her to the sofa, and gestured to his butler to bring her some water. Elliott sat down next to Mary and rubbed her back gently as she adjusted Billy to sit on her lap.

“Was the journey okay for you? I know how arduous that boat journey can be, and the ride here from Perth isn’t exactly fun either.”

The butler set down a tray on the side table and Elliott dismissed him with a wave of his hand so he could pour Mary a drink himself.

“Honestly, Elliott, it was awful. As it turns out, I get horribly seasick. I was so worried for the baby, but everybody was so lovely to me. People would give me portions of their food to make sure I ate enough, even though most of it ended up coming back out again.”

“Well, you’ll just have to make sure you never make that journey again,” Elliott said cheekily. “Good thing everything you need is here. And how’s Tommy? I’m glad to see he seems to be alright, I was worried that even if you married William, he’d still harm him.”

Mary smiled gratefully as she took the glass of water from Elliott.

“Oh, Elliott. You really worried about Tommy?”

“Of course I did. I’ve been worried for both of you. Trapped in a house with him — I can’t imagine what it must have been like for you.”

Mary took a long drink of her water.

“It wasn’t too awful. He ignored me most of the time except when he wanted sex. He could be callous, but he wasn’t cruel, not really. He never wanted to hurt me — he just didn’t care if he did. So long as I was obedient, he treated me well enough. I had an allowance and he even let me set up a workshop in Johanna’s old room. And I taught myself to read! I used the letters you taught me to figure out words in books. I’m not so good at writing, though.”

“Then I suppose I ought to teach you. Tommy, too. And Billy, once he’s old enough. Would you like that, Billy?”

“Ga ba da ga!” Billy replied when Elliott looked down at him with a smile.

“What about you, Elliott? Are you alright? I tried to write to you after a month or so, but your uncle told me you’d left soon after I did, and I was too ashamed to write to you here.”

“You’re the one who was forced into a loveless marriage, and you’re worried if I’m alright?”

“I broke your heart, Elliott,” Mary said in a small voice, hanging her head slightly in shame. “It’s haunted me every day.”

“Hey.” Elliott took her chin between his fingers and forced her to look up at him. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Tears welled in her eyes, and her lip began to wobble.

“It - it is my fault, though. Oh, Elliott, I’m so sorry!” Mary sobbed, and Elliott immediately wrapped an arm around her and held her close, rubbing her arm soothingly.

“It’s not your fault, Mary,” Elliott said again. “It was his. He took Tommy hostage and forced you to marry him. You had no choice. I know that.”

Billy seemed to notice his mother’s distress, because he started crying too.

Elliott was at a bit of a loss. He was exhausted from being awake all night watching out for Quigley, and now he had a crying woman and a crying child in his lounge.

Fortunately, at that moment Tommy and Dobkin came in with the bags. Dobkin was as confused as Elliott, but Tommy simply put down the bags he was carrying and came over to pick Billy up.

The child clung to him, and Elliott realised that Billy must recognise Tommy as caregiver just as much as he did Mary.

Tommy carried Billy outside to soothe him, and Mary took the opportunity of being babyless to wrap her arms around Elliott’s waist and bury her head against his chest. Tears were still streaming down her face, but Elliott realised he didn’t give two figs if she got his shirt wet.

“Take her bags to my room,” Elliott said to Dobkin, then turned his attention back to Mary. He didn’t know what to do or say, but she seemed to want to be held, so he wrapped his arms tight around her and held her close, rubbing her back and muttering words of sympathy against the top of her head as she sobbed.

After Dobkin left, not without another uneasy glance at the mysterious crying woman who’d suddenly appeared, Elliott and Mary were left alone for a little while — that was, until the door opened again, and one of the Aborigine women backed into the room, apparently carrying something.

“What do you want?” Elliott snapped.

Mary looked up, curious, still sniffling although her sobs had subsided.

The woman didn’t respond. She just carried on into the house, followed by another of the women, who was carrying the other end of —

“A cot!” Mary gasped.

It was rudimentary, and Elliott would definitely have to send someone to Perth to get a good and proper one made, but it was a cot.

“Put it in the bedroom,” Elliott commanded when the women hesitated, unsure where he would want it. They obeyed, and when they emerged, they kept their heads bowed respectfully as they passed back through the lounge to leave.

“Thank you!” Mary called after them. They paused, evidently surprised to be thanked, then curtsied clumsily towards her before leaving.

“Oh, Elliott, they gave us a cot! How kind! I must see it!”

Mary sprung to her feet, her tears apparently forgotten, and Elliott had to hurry to follow her into his bedroom, where the cot had been placed against a wall.

She examined it with a grin on her face. It was literally made of sticks stuck together with resin, the most basic, clumsy cot that Elliott could have imagined. Billy had probably had a significantly fancier cot back in London.

And yet, Mary loved it. Something about the rudimentary cot that had been made by an Aborigine whore for her halfling child was magical to Mary, and that was what Elliott loved so much about her. She saw wonder in everything — even him.

He couldn’t resist her.

“Mary…”

Elliott crossed the room in a few long strides and took her in his arms, pulling her in for a kiss. Their lips met, and Mary reciprocated eagerly. Her lips were still a little wet with tears, but Elliott didn’t care. She was here, she was real, and she was his. That was all that mattered.

He placed his hands on her waist, ready to encourage her out of her dress, when he felt a strange fluttering coming from her belly.

Mary broke the kiss and looked down, laughing. She took Elliott’s hand and guided it over her belly.

“Someone’s saying hello.”

He’d been so focused on her, he hadn’t looked at her belly. Hadn’t noticed the way it protruded just a little. Not obviously, easily missed, but now that he looked, it was clear as day.

She was pregnant.

Pregnant with his cousin’s child.

The thought didn’t anger Elliott as he would have expected it to. So what if he was a Turpin by blood? Elliott would make sure he was a Marston by name. Billy and Tommy too. He’d adopt them both, and if Mary wanted more children, he’d give her more. They were her sons, and that was enough for Elliott — they’d be his too.

“Marry me.”

Mary looked up at him, eyes wide.

“You’re certain? Even after everything that’s happened? Even - even with a child that’s not yours?”

“But he is mine. Because he’s part of you, and you are mine. I told you that a long time ago, didn’t I? I’ll adopt Billy, Tommy too, and we’ll have more if you want more. I’ve got plenty of space. We’ll have a whole litter if you want. Just say yes, Mary. Say you’ll marry me.”

She beamed up at him with the most adorable smile he’d ever seen. It lit up not just her face, but the entire room, and Elliott’s heart with it.

“Oh, Elliott, of course I’ll marry you! I won’t let anybody come between us this time, I swear it!”

“Perhaps we should do it quickly, just in case,” Elliott said, only half-joking.

“I know you jest, Elliott, but let’s do it! I don’t need a big fancy ceremony, I already had one of those and I hated it. All I want is to pledge my heart to you.”

“Alright, then,” Elliott agreed. “There’s a chapel in Meekathanga nearby. Let’s see if the chaplain’s at home, shall we?”

Elliott barked some orders at his men outside, instructing one of them to clean up the bodies that Mary hadn’t even noticed were scattered around, and he sent the other to Meekathanga to bring back the chaplain.

“Oh, and if you find any men looking for work, tell them I’ve got plenty of work and gold for them,” Elliott added as an afterthought. “I can’t be picky, so take deserters if you must. I’m sure Ashley-Pitt will forgive me, given the circumstances.”

“Elliott, why are there so many dead bodies around here?” Mary asked with trepidation as Tommy handed a now calmed Billy back to her to feed.

“Thank God you didn’t arrive earlier. Quigley, the man I shot earlier - he’s been on a rampage across the Outback recently. Murdered nearly all my men last night. Fortunately I - bloody hell, darling, warn me before you get your tits out, won’t you? I’m as weak a man as any.”

Mary laughed as she held Billy up to her breast and he eagerly latched onto her nipple to feed.

“This is what they’re made for, you know.”

“They can have two purposes. There are two of them, after all. One for him and one for me.”

He grinned cheekily, leaning against the pillar of his porch as Mary sat in the shade with Billy in her arms, and Mary thought he looked particularly handsome out here, in his natural environment. London had never suited him. It was too cramped, too stuffy. Someone like Turpin might thrive there, but Elliott, he belonged out here, in his home country. It was very easy to believe that he owned the ground he walked on.

“What are you smiling at?” Elliott asked with a smirk.

“I was just thinking about how handsome you are.”

“Oh, really? And how handsome am I, exactly?”

“Handsome enough that I sailed halfway around the world just to see your face again.”

“Ah, so you’re only here for my looks!” Elliott put his hand to his heart in an imaginary wounded gesture. “What if I’d had a horrible accident that disfigured me, hm? Would you turn around and run back to London?”

Mary laughed. “No, of course not! I’d love you just the same no matter what. Even if you shaved!”

“Now that is love,” Elliott teased. “Maybe I’ll shave just to test that theory.”

“Oh, no, please don’t!” Mary said in alarm, and Elliott laughed to see just how much the thought of him shaving panicked her. “You look perfect just the way you are.”

“I’m joking, I’d never shave it off. It makes me look powerful, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes,” Mary agreed earnestly. “And I like the way it feels against my lips when we kiss.”

“Oh, you do, do you? So something like this?”

He crossed the gap between them, then leant down to kiss her — and cheekily grabbed her spare breast while he was at it.

“Elliott!” Mary laughed as he fondled her breast brazenly, for all to see — not that there was really anyone left to see.

“God, look at them, they’re so fucking full,” Elliott growled. “I knew pregnancy would suit you.”

“Elliott, stop it,” Mary blushed, covering up her breast again as she batted his hand away. “Not while I’m feeding, please. They get very sensitive.”

“Of course, darling,” Elliott said, and he kissed her gently on the head before pulling another chair over to sit next to her. He looked away for only a moment to grab the chair, and when he sat himself down and looked back at her, she had tears in her eyes. “Oh, Mary — did I do something wrong?”

Mary shook her head as she wiped a tear from her face.

“No. No, quite the opposite. Oh, Elliott, I’m sorry. That’s twice now I’ve cried since getting here.”

“Hey, it’s alright. You’re pregnant. If women weren’t unpredictable enough as it is, pregnant women are even worse. Is there something I can do?”

“No, Elliott, there’s nothing you can do. It’s just… oh, but I shouldn’t speak of William, it’s uncouth…”

“Nonsense. Tell me what you’re thinking, Mary. Tell me what’s got those pretty eyes all wet.”

He wiped away a tear from her cheek, and she smiled as she leaned into his touch.

“Well, it’s just… he used to do that too, he’d grab my breasts and - and even when I said it hurt, he didn’t care. He said that because we were married, they were his to play with as he pleased.”

Elliott sighed. There was no doubt about the fact that his cousin had left Mary with a lot of trauma. It was going to take him a long time to help her heal — and fortunately, they had the rest of their lives to do exactly that.

- - -

It was a good few hours to Meekathanga, and the same again in return. That left Mary and Elliott waiting all day for Dobkin to return with the chaplain — and, Elliott hoped, some new men looking for work. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to manage with just Dobkin and O’Flynn around.

Fortunately, they had a lot to entertain themselves with. Elliott introduced Mary to the horses in the stable, and the cattle in their pen, and he promised that when he next went out to tend to the sheep, she could come with him. He earned himself an extra kiss for that promise.

When the heat became too much for Mary, she said goodbye to the farm animals, and Elliott brought her back inside. Billy was getting restless in her arms, so she opened up one of her bags in the middle of the lounge and Elliott moved some furniture around to make some space for a little play area.

“I couldn’t bring much with me, but I brought his favourite toys,” Mary explained as Elliott rolled out a woollen blanket for her to lay Billy down. “He doesn’t really play with them as much as he tries to eat them.”

She put him on his back and placed his favourite coloured blocks just out of arm’s reach.

“You’re not going to give them to him?” Elliott asked with amusement.

“It’s important that he gets them himself so he learns to move. Look, see!”

She watched with a grin of pride on her face as Billy spotted the colourful blocks, reached out for them, and when he couldn’t grab them, he rolled over to his front to bring himself closer.

“Good boy!” Mary cheered. “Isn’t he clever, Elliott?”

“A veritable genius,” Elliott replied sarcastically as Billy began trying to put the square blocks in his mouth.

“Oh, shush,” Mary laughed. “It’s been difficult to teach him to roll over when he’s spent half his life on a moving boat. I imagine it must feel rather odd to him now to be on dry land.”

“Gahhh baya!” Billy exclaimed excitedly, holding up a blue block and showing it to Elliott.

“Do you want to play with papa, Billy?”

“Baga!” Billy replied, still trying to give Elliott the block.

“Alright. Christ, I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Elliott sighed. He looked the block from Billy. “Now what do I do?”

“Show him how to play with it!”

“It’s a cube, Mary, I don’t know how to play with it. Unless I’m supposed to eat it too?”

Mary plucked another block from the pile and placed it in front of Billy.

“Show him how to make a stack.”

“…Alright.”

Elliott placed the block he was holding on top of the other. Billy looked up at it, eyes wide and curious, then reached out and knocked it over with a squeal of joy.

“Hey, I built that!” Elliott protested indignantly, but Mary just laughed.

Billy, catching onto his mother’s mirth, laughed too, and he began banging the two blocks together, enjoying the clacking noise they made.

Mary turned to Elliott and looked up at him with a grin.

“He likes you! He doesn’t share his blocks with just anyone, you know. Do you think he can tell that you’re his papa?”

“Maybe. Did William ever play with him?”

Mary’s face dropped and she glanced away.

“No. He wouldn’t even hold him. He said he didn’t know what to do with a baby. As if any of us know… I certainly didn’t when Tommy was a baby, and I figured it out. He didn’t even try…”

Elliott rubbed her back soothingly. “It’s his loss, Mary. You won’t be doing any of this alone anymore. Tommy’s clearly good with him, and you’ve got me now. I can hire a nanny to come from Perth as well, if you like. You might need the help when Elliott Junior comes along and we’re trying to juggle two babies.”

“Elliott Junior?” Mary laughed. “Is that what we’re calling him, is it?”

“Well, why not? William named my son after himself. I might as well return the favour.”

“Well, I — I did have another name in mind. But if you really want to call him Elliott —”

“No, no, tell me,” Elliott said, placing his hand over hers. “What did you have in mind?”

Mary threaded her fingers through his.

“Well… your uncle was so kind to us. And after William died, I went to him, and he refused to listen to arguments when he proposed to buy everything from me. It was his idea, you know — he insisted on buying the house, the furniture, everything, under the condition I use the money to buy our transport here. I’m not sure he even wanted the house — I think he just knew I wouldn’t accept it as a gift. So, well, I was wondering… maybe we could call him Rupert.”

Elliott smiled. “You’re right, he was very kind to us. A byproduct of having nothing but daughters, I think, it turns a man soft. I’ll have to write to him and thank him for everything. But, I’ll be honest with you, Mary…”

“You don’t like the name?”

“It’s an awful name.”

Mary laughed. “Alright, alright, not Rupert. But maybe as a middle name?”

“A middle name, yes. What’s Billy’s middle name, by the way?”

“Sinclair Alexander Lionel. Why do rich people have so many names?”

“God knows. I think my father asked the same question, so I ended up with just the one.”

“Which is?”

“Elliott James Marston, at your service, milady,” Elliott said with a mock bow.

“Oh, James, that’s a lovely name! My parents didn’t even give me a surname, let alone a middle name. I was always just Mary. I added the Taylor on myself.”

“Sounds better than Mary Seamstress, I suppose.”

“Or Mary Theapprentice, that’s how Mrs Harris used to introduce me.”

“You know what name does sound good? Mary Marston.”

Mary blushed. “Yes, it does, doesn’t it? Oh, but I do like James. Maybe we can give him your middle name.”

“Well, James was my father. I wouldn’t mind naming him for my father.”

“And if it’s a girl? What was your mother’s name?”

“God, no, we’re not naming her after my mother. I adored her, of course, but her name was Eunice.”

“Oh, Lord, the Beaumonts didn’t have the best taste in names, did they?”

Elliott laughed. “No, they certainly didn’t. Is Mary Junior out of the question?”

“I’m not giving her my own name! What about Victoria, for the Queen?”

Elliott hesitated.

“Well, ah… I never told you this, but… I was married once before. Her name was Victoria.”

“Oh.” Mary bit her lip. “What - what happened?”

“The sickness took her. Too much sun can make you sick, and… well, it made her sick. This was… it must have been five years ago now that she died.”

“Oh, Elliott, I’m so sorry,” Mary said softly, stroking her thumb gently over the hand she was still holding. “How long were you married?”

“A year.” He frowned. “Strange, that we both were married for a year before they got sick. But Victoria was nothing like William, she was amazing. She really got stuck into farming the land, it was a matter of pride for her not to ask the men for help. That was her downfall, I think — she’d rather stay out working on something alone for hours than get it done in half the time with help. So she’d spend much longer in the sun than she should have… and it took her in the end.”

“She sounds wonderful. I wish I could have met her.”

“As fun as it might be in bed, I think two wives might be a little much to handle.”

Mary slapped Elliott playfully. “Get your mind out of the gutter, El! Honestly.”

“I’m just teasing you, Mary,” Elliott replied, tickling her back to make her squirm. “I have you now, and you’re all I want.”

“Well, back to the actual topic at hand! If we have a girl, I’ll gladly call her Victoria. Both for the Queen and for your first wife.”

“Really? You’d do that?”

“Of course. It’s a lovely name. And Victoria Marston deserves to live on, don’t you think?”

“Oh, Mary. Your good heart knows no bounds.” He gave her a quick kiss. “Alright, then. James for a boy and Victoria for a girl. You don’t want to use your parents’ names?”

“I… don’t know what their names were. I always just called them mama and papa. Maybe they were Mary and Tommy too, who knows?”

“Well, Mama and Papa Taylor made two wonderful children. Strong, resilient, hardworking, and very, very brave. I especially like the daughter, she’s ever so beautiful.”

“Sounds like you have a bit of a thing for her,” Mary teased.

“I most certainly do,” Elliott teased back, wrapping an arm around her waist to hold her close. “I think I might marry her, actually. Do you think she’ll say yes?”

“It’s not her you’ll have to ask.”

Mary picked Billy up off the floor, where he was still trying to eat his blocks, and sat him on her lap.

“What do you think, Billy? Should mama and papa get married?”

Elliott uncrossed his legs to lay down on the floor, propped up on his elbows, so that he was face-level with Billy.

“Oh, please say yes, Billy, I’ll treat her ever so well,” he pleaded. “I’ll show her that I love her every single day, and I’ll give you as many little brothers and sisters as you want. What do you say?”

“Bah nana!” Billy said confidently.

“…Did he just respond to my proposal with ‘banana’?”

Mary laughed. “I think he’s calling you bananas. But it sounds like a yes to me.”

“Oh, Billy, you’ve made me the happiest man in Australia,” Elliott grinned.

He leaned forward to give his son a peck on the forehead, and Billy laughed to feel Elliott’s moustache tickling his skin. He reached up and grabbed at Elliott’s face, curious and amused by the funny hair on his face.

“You like it too, hm? Yes, mama likes it, so I’ll be keeping it. Maybe one day you’ll grow a nice strong moustache like mine, hm?”

“Gabada!” Billy replied.

There was a knock on the door, and Elliott reluctantly pulled away from his son’s grip to answer it.

Dobkin looked over his shoulder, still flummoxed by Mary’s presence, but decided against questioning who this woman was and why she had suddenly appeared.

“Just got back from town, Mr Marston. The chaplain’s here, and I managed to pick up half a dozen men. I can get more from Perth.”

“Excellent. Get them settled in the men’s quarters, then put them to work. I want a count of all the outer pens, I wouldn’t put it past Quigley to murder my livestock as well as my men.”

“Yes, sir.” Dobkin hesitated, glancing again at Mary, who was standing up now with Billy in her arms. “Mr Marston, can I ask —”

“What? Oh, right. Introductions.” Elliott beckoned Mary over. “Mary, this is Mr Dobkin. He’s the best of my men, even before they were all slaughtered. He kept the place going while I was away. In fact, if I weren’t able to trust him, I’d have never gone to London.”

“Oh, in that case, I must thank you, Mr Dobkin!”

“Er - no problem?” Dobkin replied with confusion.

“Dobkin, this is Mary. She’s to be my wife. She’s to be treated with nothing but respect, so make sure those new men know it, alright? She has just as much authority as me. More, in fact, because I do what she says.”

“Elliott!” Mary laughed.

“Pleased to meet you, miss,” Dobkin said with a tip of his hat. “And who’s the little one?”

“This is our son, Billy,” Elliott said. “And the lad you met earlier, that’s Mary’s brother, Tommy.”

“Your —?”

“Our son, yes. I’ll tell you the whole story later, but I need those headcounts. And where’s the chaplain? He has a wedding to officiate.”

- - -

All that time Mary had spent imagining what getting married would be like, she’d never imagined this.

Her wedding to Turpin had been large, opulent, the pews of St Dunstan’s filled to the brim.

It had also been terrifying. Mary was miserable, she didn’t know a single one of the guests, and any affection she might have harboured for her groom had dissipated the night he’d threatened to hang her brother if she didn’t marry him.

But her wedding to Elliott was everything the first hadn’t been.

It was small, intimate, with only Tommy and Elliott’s trusted worker, Mr Dobkin, in attendance — and Billy, of course, in Tommy’s arms. Mary had married Turpin in a church and become a Lady — now, she was marrying Elliott in the middle of the desert, and she didn’t care that she was relinquishing her title as Lady Turpin. She’d rather be Mrs Marston any day.

Mary hardly heard what the chaplain was saying. She recognised the prayers and the blessings she’d heard at her first wedding, but she didn’t really listen. All she could do was look at Elliott, so handsome in the Australian sun, and when he recited his vow to her, she began to cry.

She just about managed to hold it together as she repeated the vow back to him.

There was no wedding ring, but neither of them cared for that. That could come another day. All that mattered was that the other was there.

More prayers, more blabbing from the chaplain. Mary began to get impatient. Then, finally, she heard the words she wanted to hear.

“I now pronounce you man and wife.”

“Finally,” Elliott growled. He wrapped his arms around Mary’s waist, pulled her in close, and kissed her fiercely.

Somewhere, Tommy and Dobkin were applauding, but Mary didn’t pay them any mind.

She was married! To Elliott! She was married to Elliott! She was Mrs Mary Marston, and nobody could change that.

Elliott eventually pulled away, and quickly scooped Mary up in his arms, causing her to squeal with surprise.

“Right, nobody disturb us for at least an hour. I need to spend some time alone with my wife.”

“Er - just a moment, Mr Marston,” the chaplain said, hesitant to interrupt Elliott’s enthusiasm. “The certificate first, please.”

“Oh, right, right. Quickly!”

Elliott set Mary back down to her feet and the chaplain unrolled the certificate onto the table on the porch.

“Right, then, here we are. Names… Elliott James Marston… Mary Turpin… ages?”

“Forty-three,” Elliott replied.

“Nineteen,” said Mary. Not that she was certain, but it was her best guess.

“Condition - both widowed. Rank or profession. Pastoralist, I suppose, Mr Marston?”

“Yes, fine.”

“Father’s name and profession?”

“James Marston. Merchant.”

The chaplain looked at Mary expectantly, and she hesitated.

“Oh, um… I don’t know.”

“That’s alright, we can leave it blank. Mr Marston, sign here — Mrs Marston, there. Then these two can sign as witnesses and we can leave you two to, uh… celebrate.”

Elliott had never signed anything so fast or with such certainty. Mary did her best attempt at a signature, though it looked childish next to Elliott’s, and Tommy’s was just a cross.

“Come on, Dobkin, hurry up,” Elliott snapped as Dobkin signed the last signature. “Right, is that it?”

“Yes, I’ll get this registered back in town and send it back to you,” the chaplain said, but Elliott hardly heard anything after “yes.” He swept Mary up in his arms again, grinning, and practically kicked the front door down.

“No interruptions!” he barked back at Dobkin. “And I want those headcounts!”

The door slammed shut behind him, and Mary laughed as he practically sprinted to the bedroom, kicked that door open too, and threw her quite unceremoniously onto the bed.

“Clothes off,” he commanded, already shrugging his waistcoat off, and Mary eagerly stood to undress. “I’ve waited too fucking long for this. You have no idea - no idea… you ruined whores for me, you know? I tried, but they were all disappointments. I’d rather my own hand than a cunt that’s not yours.”

“I… thought of you,” Mary admitted with a blush as she loosened her dress and let it fall to the floor to reveal her undergarments. “When I was with William, I’d… think of you.”

Elliott grinned with pride. “I bet you did. Thinking of my cock while taking his. The little one might as well be mine. Go on, let me see him.”

Mary pulled her vest over her head, revealing her swollen breasts and her slightly protruding stomach, and Elliott groaned. The sight of Mary - his wife - round with child… it touched something primal within him.

He knelt down and placed both hands on Mary’s belly, his lips ghosting her skin softly.

“Hello, James. Or Victoria. But hopefully James.”

Mary laughed.

“Another man may have planted his seed, but make no mistake, I am your father. And once you’re out, I’ll put another one in there, as many as your mama wants.”

“Two more,” Mary told him. “I’d like two more, if that’s alright with you.”

Elliott looked up at her with a grin. “Oh, I will very happily keep impregnating you. Let’s practice, shall we? Get these bloody things off.”

He hooked his fingers under the waistband of her bloomers and pulled them down, leaving her fully nude in front of him.

“God, I missed this,” Elliott groaned. He guided Mary to sit on the edge of the bed, instructed her to lie on her back, and promptly buried his face between her legs.

“Elliott!” Mary gasped as his tongue began exploring her folds, hungrily lapping at her like a man starved.

It had been a long time since she’d felt his mouth down there. Turpin had certainly never seen the point, since it wasn’t for his pleasure. And Elliott had never eaten a whore’s pussy — he didn’t pay to give her pleasure, only to take his own. So he really was a man starved, not having tasted a cunt since he’d last brought Mary to orgasm with his tongue in Sussex a million years ago.

Not that he seemed out of practice. He easily recalled the way she liked his tongue to circle her clit, and when he slid his fingers inside her, he knew exactly where to go to find that inner sweet spot.

He showed no mercy to her, continuing his precise movements as she came, and only when she mumbled, “Stop… too much…” did he pull away, grinning victoriously with a face covered in her juices.

“I could stay buried in there all day,” he said as he wiped his face on the back of his hand. “I’d gladly die suffocating between your thighs.”

“Mmm, well, I think it’s time you put something else between my thighs, don’t you agree?”

Mary shuffled up the bed as if to prove her point, laying her head against the pillow as she spread her legs for him.

“Oh, someone’s grown bold,” Elliott purred. He gladly climbed on top of her, rubbing his cock between her legs to spread her slick along it. “All that time I spent trying to get you out of your shell, and all I had to do was marry you.”

“I spent over a year without you, El. I thought I’d never see you again. I don’t want to wait any longer.”

Elliott leant over her, their torsos pressed together, though he tried not to put too much weight on her belly. He kissed her neck and nibbled on her earlobe, then muttered in her ear, “Tell me what you want, Mary. I’m yours to command.”

She wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms around his shoulders, desperately trying to pull him close.

“Fuck me, Elliott.”

There was no way he could resist that.

He lined himself up with her entrance and pushed, and her cunt gladly let him in. It gave him all the wetness he needed to move without resistance, and her walls easily acquiesced to him, stretching around his cock as he moved deeper inside her.

Mary had never felt the pull of any drug, but she suspected that the first hit of an addict’s substance after a long time without it felt something like this. Like she’d been missing something, and finally she was whole again.

Pregnancy made her cunt more sensitive, she’d learnt this last time, and so she felt every inch of her stretching around him, every nerve on fire as his cock filled her up so perfectly. And when he began to thrust, Mary felt like she might just die of pleasure as his cock dragged along her walls and pushed against that sweet spot inside her.

“More, Elliott, please,” Mary begged, desperate with frustration at his slow pace. “I can take it. I won’t break, I promise.”

He chuckled, and looked at her with his amber eyes darkened with lust.

“Anything you wish, my love.”

Mary clung to Elliott as he fucked her harder, his hips pummelling into hers as if trying to make up for lost time. The bed began to creak — Elliott had had this bed for a long time, and he’d never known it to creak. He’d taken plenty of whores here, his first wife too, and none of them had ever made the bed creak. Maybe it was getting old. Or maybe he just hadn’t ever desired someone as much as he did Mary.

The creaking of the bed was matched only by their moans. Mary was sure she’d never heard a sound so beautiful, so arousing, as the noises Elliott was making right now.

“Elliott…” Mary panted between moans. “Elliott, I love you.”

He grinned, full of pride. “Of course you do. I love you too, Mary. I love you so - fucking - much. Fuck! Mary… Mary, I’m afraid I won’t - ah! - last long.”

“Fill me up, El,” she begged. “Please, El, please, I wanna feel it inside me…”

“Oh, I’ll fill you up. Gonna fucking - mhm - fill you up with my cum. ‘Til you’re leaking. You want that, huh? You wanna be full of my cum?”

“Yes, yes, please, Elliott, I need it, need to be full of you…”

“Say it,” he commanded, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Say you want my cum, Mary.”

“I want your cum, Elliott, please, I need it, need your cum…”

He exploded with a roar of pleasure, his cries loud enough to be heard back in Perth, and Mary felt his cock pulsing inside her as, just as he promised, he filled her cunt up with his seed.

He’d barely finished when he was kissing her again, his tongue demanding entrance, as if he needed to follow his cock fucking her cunt with his tongue fucking her mouth.

His cock was softening inside her, but it was only a temporary reprieve. Elliott knew he had more in him. Oh, he’d fill her up alright. Again and again until his balls were expended and he had nothing more to give.

They finally parted for breath, and Elliott propped himself up on his elbows, gazing down at her with a possessive pride.

“I hope you don’t think that was all I have for you,” he purred. “You wanted my cum, you’re gonna get it.”

Before Mary could answer, Elliott pulled out of her and shuffled down the bed to position his head between her legs again. He used his fingers to push apart her lips, gazing with pride at the way his seed was leaking out of her.

“This is what this cunt was made for. Being stuffed full of cum. Fuck, you take it so well, Mary. Better keep it all inside, though, hm?”

He used his fingers to scoop up the cum that had leaked out and pushed it back inside.

“Gotta keep it all in there,” Elliott said, as if he needed a reason to push his fingers up inside her. “Mmm, such an obedient cunt… it deserves a reward, no?”

He pressed his lips against her clit, which was still swollen and sensitive, and Mary moaned his name as he licked her again, his fingers fucking her cunt as fiercely as his cock had.

He could feel it twitching to life again against the mattress, but Elliott ignored it. He was enjoying this, savouring every moment of his wife’s pussy against his face. Besides, the way she was gripping his head now, her fingers tugging on his hair, he couldn’t have moved away even if he wanted to.

To his surprise, just when he thought she was about to reach her peak again, Mary pulled his head back, and he looked up at her.

“Lie on your back,” she said.

She didn’t need to tell him twice. Elliott moved over to lie on the other side of the bed, his cock fully awake again now, and Mary took full advantage of it. She swung her leg over his waist, took his cock in her hand, and sank onto it with ease.

“Oh, Mary,” Elliott groaned. The short time they’d had together, she’d never done this. Never taken control — never owned her pleasure. She was too shy, too eager to please. She had no idea how to do anything for herself, only for others.

And she rode like an expert. She’d definitely had practice — it seemed Turpin had been good for something, at least.

Lord, she was beautiful like this. Her belly round with child, her tits swollen with milk. She was already pregnant, she had no need to take his seed. No, she was taking it because she wanted it. She was riding him for the pleasure of it, for the intimacy, for the sheer decadence of bringing herself to orgasm. And when that orgasm began to build, Elliott grabbed hold of her hips and took over thrusting, letting her lose control of her body as she came around his cock, her tight walls squeezing him. He had no choice but to follow suit, another round of seed exploding inside her as they both cried out, Mary’s cunt milking his cock for all he had left.

She collapsed, exhausted, on top of him, and Elliott gently rolled her to her side, ever wary of her belly.

They laid there together in silence for a little while, Mary comfortably snuggled up in Elliott’s arms, as they both caught their breath.

“When you said you wanted to learn to ride, I thought you meant a horse,” Elliott murmured eventually. “But I think I like this better.”

Mary giggled and looked up at him. “Well, I definitely didn’t sail halfway around the world to ride a horse. There are plenty of them in England.”

“Plenty of men, too. And I’m sure they’d happily let you ride them.”

“Mmm, but none of them are you.”

Elliott smiled at her.

“I’m so proud of you, Mary. I know how difficult it is for you to do anything for yourself. And yet, here you are, following your heart half a world away.”

Mary shook her head. “No, I - I didn’t do it for me. I did it for Tommy, so he could have a better life, away from the class system that keeps him from achieving so much. I did it for Billy, so he could know his real father, and for the baby, so he can live without ever having known the struggles Tommy and I faced.”

“You don’t have to justify yourself, Mary. Not to me, never to me. Yes, I swear it, your sons - our sons - they will have a better life here. But if it weren’t for them - if you were all alone, with no home and no family in England, just your late husband’s inheritance - would you not have come anyway?”

“I - I guess,” Mary admitted. “If there was truly no reason to stay in England, and I knew you were out here… I suppose, yes, I would have come to find you.”

“Then I am truly honoured to be the first thing you ever chose for yourself.”

Mary blushed. Elliott tucked her hair behind her ear, and kissed her on the forehead, before letting her settle back against his chest.

“I think you might be my soulmate,” she whispered.

Elliott thought back to the day they met, the way she instantly felt so familiar to him, so comfortable. Like home was within her… as if the homesickness he thought he felt for Australia had been for her all along.

He remembered the day he’d decided to visit England. Nothing in particular had triggered it. It was something he’d wanted to do, but the timing had never felt right — until it did. As if fate itself had whispered in his ear: She’s waiting for you. Go and get her.

Mary giggled at something, interrupting Elliott’s train of thought.

“You know, we only met because you were pickpocketed,” she said, looking up at him with amusement. “If you hadn’t been in the right place, at the right time, you may never have walked into the shop. Isn’t it lucky you were?”

“I don’t think it was luck, Mary… I believe it was fate.”

“Do you think we find each other in every life?”

Elliott cupped her face with his hand and looked deep into her eyes, as if trying to communicate with her very soul.

“Mary Taylor-Turpin-Marston —”

She giggled at the silly name.

“— with God as my witness, I promise you this. Whatever happens in the next life… I’ll find you. I will always find you.”

Mary grinned.

“Not if I find you first.”

#alan rickman #elliott marston #judge turpin #sweeney todd #quigley down under #die with a smile

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